


i was naive and hopeful and lost

by figure8



Series: it's not where you come from (it's where you belong) [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artistic Liberties Were Taken, Bruce Has Issues, Character Study, Families of Choice, Foster Care, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Latino Character, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Pre-Slash, Racist Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark and Bruce take in a troubled teen. </p><p>The <i>The Fosters</i> AU no one asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artemine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemine/gifts).



> _i was naive_ is the first installment of a series i refer to colloquially as fosterverse. the way i've planned this so far, there will be two main works (this one and its sequel) and then a bunch of small standalone stories that can be read in whichever order you prefer, because they do not concern the main storyline directly. if you do want to read the entirety of fosterverse chronologically, you can start with part ii and then come back here.
> 
> you don't need to have watched the fosters to understand any of this, but for those of you who have no idea what it's about, just a heads up: it features a romantic relationship between adopted siblings and i'm going down that road too with this story. the siblings in question are nowhere near related and have not been raised together, but they're still legally related. if that's something that bothers you, you might want to skip this one. not _this_ one exactly because nothing happens here, but you catch my drift.  
>  throughout this entire series, **when i tag for child abuse it is _never_ something that happens at the Waynes'.**
> 
> for the sake of realism i had to 1) guess ages (thanks for NOTHING, dc), 2) reduce/increase age gaps. dick is 17 in this, jason 15 going on 16, tim is 13, and damian is 9.
> 
> bruce is ~technically~ ooc. because any version of bruce that isn't the batman will always be ooc. this is my main motivation writing this: exploring a bruce that is still the exact same person but has to find his homemade therapy outside of vigilantism. bear with me. 
> 
> title from rip 2 my youth by the neighbourhood (what a jason song. ouch, my heart). series title from the fosters opening song.

“I’m not sure it’s a very good idea, Jim.”

Bruce sighs and wipes his brow with the sleeve of his expensive suit. He wonders, for the umpteenth time, what it says about him that he feels more at home here sitting on an uncomfortable stool at the police station than anywhere else. Guilt eats at his stomach as he thinks of his _real_ home, his family. _Where the heart is_ my ass. Bruce’s heart has been all over the place since he was eight years old. Some pieces he still doesn’t know where to find. It’s a work in progress.

“Listen,” Commissioner Jim Gordon says, “It’s really just for a few days. Until Harley can find him a more permanent home.”

“I understand,” Bruce says, “and in any other circumstances you know I would have said yes in an instant, but we’ve been having trouble with Tim lately and Clark isn’t gonna be back for another week. I’m not sure bringing a delinquent into our home is what we need right now. I don’t think the boy will be comfortable, either.”

“His name is Jason,” Jim supplies. “And don’t give me that bullshit, if there’s anywhere he’s going to be _comfortable,_ it’s Wayne Manor.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Did you call me here because I have the _money_? You think that’s gonna make things easier for him?” His tone is strained. _Stupid, Wayne_. _Get yourself under control_.

Jim shakes his head softly. “You know that’s not what I meant. Listen, if you really don’t want to, I’ll find someone else. It’s just that I know it won’t be a strain financially, yeah, and also that you’re already licensed and I trust you. The poor kid’s been through enough.”

Bruce can feel himself cave in. He thinks of calling Clark, then rapidly discards that idea. Clark is either going to chastise him for not accepting immediately, or tell him to refuse, and Bruce finds he doesn’t want to hear any of this right now. “Just for a few days,” he insists.

Jim grins, victorious. “Four or five, not more.”

That’s good. It means he doesn’t have to tell Clark. He will deal with that _later_ , when he doesn’t have a strange kid on his hands. “Where is he?”

“Right here,” Jim motions to a door at the back of the room. “I’ll get him for ya.”

 

The boy—the young man, really—is not what he expected. He’s tall and lean, his body all hard lines that no fifteen year old who’s had a normal life should display. But the kid hasn’t had a normal life, has he? That’s the whole point. His hair is black, cut badly, falling in front of his eyes; and he’s wearing a ratty red hoodie and sweatpants, and a pair of sneakers that’s seen better days. There’s a fury to his gaze Bruce recognizes immediately, an echo of Bruce’s own teenage days. It’s not all real anger. There’s fear in there, too, that Jason is frenetically trying to cover up. His entire stance is defensive; aggressiveness easily decipherable in the tense set of his shoulders and arms.

Bruce tries to offer him a genuine, reassuring smile. “Jason?” he asks, modulating his voice so it sounds gentler than his usual semi-growl. “I’m Bruce. Did Commissioner Gordon tell you what’s going to happen?”

“I know the system, thank you very much,” Jason deadpans. “Also, I’m not five, don’t speak to me like I’m a fucking kid.”

 _Ah_ , Bruce thinks. “Then you know, young man, that you’re probably not supposed to swear in front of the guy who’s gonna be in charge of you for the next week, am I right?” The terror in Jason’s green-blue irises is just a flash, but Bruce catches it. _Ah_ , he thinks again. Contrary to what Dick likes to repeat whenever he has the occasion, Bruce dislikes being right. He almost always is, and it’s never about nice things. “Let’s say that didn’t count,” he suggests, and offers his hand for Jason to shake. Like an adult. Jason accepts the handshake with a mix of curiosity and respect, and really, that’s all Bruce needs. “It’s nice to meet you, Jason.”

“Yeah, whatever, same. I’m super hungry,” Jason babbles while gathering his things. There’s not a lot, just a bag and a brown coat that looks too small. He flings the bag over his shoulder and stares at Bruce. “Do you live far away? Can we stop on the road for pizza?”

“Let me sign the forms and then we’ll see about food.”

 

Harley looks delighted when she hands him the paperwork. “I’m glad it’s you,” she smiles. “He needs someone like you, right now.”

“It’s just for a few days,” Bruce mumbles aimlessly.

“It’s already something,” Harley says. “You know that better than anyone.”

Bruce’s hand freezes a millimeter away from the sheet of paper for a second. He has to breathe in slowly. “I guess I do.”

“Pass my regards to the kids and Clark,” she tells him when he hands back the folder. “I’ll drop by soon to see this one,” she adds, looking at Jason. “Behave, okay?” Bruce isn’t a hundred percent certain that last remark was aimed at the kid. He decides not to dwell on it.

 

Jason is weirdly silent in the car. He gasped when he saw the Porsche, obvious envy in his expression, but he was more awed than bitter. He doesn’t ask for food again, which confirms Bruce’s suspicion that his earlier bravado was meant to test him, and that now that they’re alone Jason is too wary to try anything.

“We can stop at Nino’s,” Bruce offers out of the blue. “They make a mean meat lover’s. Or you can wait twenty-five more minutes and appreciate a home-cooked meal.”

“Your wife waiting for you at home?” Jason smirks.

“Something like that,” Bruce mutters.

“Nah, I think I’ll go with the pizza.”

“Pizza it is.” He sounds vaguely disappointed even to his own ears, but Bruce is actually satisfied with this development. Stopping at Nino’s means stalling some more before getting to the manor. He needs to devise a plan of attack. _There is something seriously wrong with the fact you associate your family life with war vocabulary_ , the little voice in his head singsongs. It sounds suspiciously like Clark. Bruce would tell himself to shut up, but there’s a godforsaken kid riding with him who already probably thinks he’s nuts.

 

They find a booth at the back of the restaurant, secluded enough that Bruce feels comfortable taking off his long felt coat and relaxing. He’s under no illusion the high collar gives him much anonymity, but purposefully shedding any kind of disguise is always a source of anxiety. They order one extra-large meat lover’s with extra sausage, a beer for him and a coke for Jason. Jason devours his half of the pizza and then spends ten minutes eying Bruce’s plate, until Bruce rolls his eyes and offers him another slice. The grateful, genuine smile he gets is recompense enough. Bruce wasn’t that hungry anyway.

“So,” Jason states, “you have money.”

Bruce smiles. “What makes you say that?”

“The car, obviously. The clothes. The fact you mentioned _kids_ , plural, but don’t seem bothered by taking in one more, even for just a while. Not this place, that’s for sure,” he laughs.

“Pizza not to your taste?” Bruce inquires.

“Sure is. _I_ know that fancy doesn’t always equate good, and that small shops make the best stuff. It’s just funny, you don’t seem like the type to eat here.”

“Best pizza joint in the city,” Bruce shrugs. “I’ve been coming here since I was a highschooler.”

Jason raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t have any money back then?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Bruce smirks, amused. “You really don’t know who I am?”

“Why, you’re a celebrity or some shit? Sorry, we didn’t have a tv in the last shithole they put me in. I’m out of touch with popular culture, as of late.” It’s funny how well Jason speaks when he lets himself. It’s still peppered with obscenities and slang, but the structure of his sentences shows someone who reads a lot, who probably studies hard. Bruce stores the information in a corner of his mind for later.

“Not exactly,” he muses. “I just _have money_ , as you said.” He chugs down what remains of his beer, flips his wrist around to check his watch. “You done, kid? We should get going.” Jason struggles with buttoning his coat. It really is too small, and the Gothamite weather is unforgiving this time of the year, especially at night. Bruce takes off his jacket and offers it wordlessly. His shoulders are large enough that it should do a better job than the miserable item of clothing Jason is now actively battling.

“No way,” Jason shakes his head.

“Come on, my coat is warm enough. It’s just until we walk to the car.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“Kid,” Bruce sighs. “You’re gonna be living in my house. You’re getting my _‘charity’_ whether you like it or not.”

“Whatever,” Jason says angrily, but he takes the jacket. _Baby steps,_ Bruce reminds himself. He tries to remember how Dick was the day he brought him home, but all he gets is a warm feeling of contentment. Ridiculous. It occurs to him he hasn’t told Jason anything about his sons.

“I have three boys,” he begins once he’s behind the wheel again. “Dick is the closest to you in age.”

“What kind of name is _Dick_ ,” Jason snickers.

“That’s not a joke I tolerate,” Bruce warns him. Jason mutters something that vaguely resembles _Fair enough_. “He’s a senior in high school,” Bruce continues. “Timothy just turned thirteen, and Damian is almost nine.”

“Who calls their son _Timothy_ ,” Jason says, but this time it’s clear he’s just trying to annoy Bruce.

“Everyone calls him Tim. Except from Damian, but that’s a whole other story.”

It’s easy, effortless, to keep the conversation going from there. He asks Jason the right questions, the ones Bruce knows he won’t mind answering, and Jason asks benign ones in return too. It’s a slow dance. They’re learning to trust each other a little. _Just a little_ , because it’s just for a few days. Maybe if he repeats it and repeats it, it will sting less. _This_ is why he should have said no. Because he fucking hates putting kids back into the system. He looks at Jason, with his clever eyes and quick wit, who deserves so much better; and suddenly he is so immensely angry he has to grip the steering wheel real tight. Jason doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he’s smart enough to pretend he didn’t. Bruce likes the kid. He can hold his own.

 

Jason gulps loudly when they arrive at the gate. He takes in the stylized W in the middle and Bruce can _hear_ his brain working it out.

“You’re Bruce _Wayne_ ,” he breathes out, astounded.

“Yeah,” Bruce confirms, parking the car. “That’s your stop kiddo,” he jokes, “get off.”

“You drive your own car,” Jason observes uselessly.

“Most of the time,” Bruce nods.

“Billionaires don’t drive their own cars,” the boy retorts almost accusingly.

“Obviously I like being different,” Bruce deadpans. “Come on, grab your bag. It’s getting really late.”

 

Alfred is waiting at the door when they enter the hall. Jason doesn’t show his surprise, not this time, but he gapes at Alfred oddly for a while after he hears _Welcome home, Master Bruce_. Ace runs to greet them, tail waggling, and barks happily under Bruce’s hand as he scratches behind the Doberman’s ears.

“You have a _dog_?” Jason asks, his voice somewhere between disbelief and utter joy. He drops to his knees to pet Ace, who stares at him with curiosity.

“What,” Bruce scoffs, “billionaires don’t have dogs?” He can see Alfred smirking from the corner of his eye. “This is Ace. Ace, say hi to Jason. He’s a friend. _Good dog_.”

“Dad,” Damian’s sleepy voice says from the staircase, “You’re home.”

Bruce’s heart sinks. Damian only allows himself to call him _dad_ when he’s tired or really miserable, which is ironic seeing as he’s Bruce’s only biological child, but mostly, it’s _sad._ “Come here, Damian,” he says softly. Jason’s interest perks up at that, and he stops playing with Ace to stare at the small boy who just appeared in front of them. Bruce crouches and opens his arms, and Damian jumps into the embrace, his fingers curling around the soft fabric of Bruce’s collar. His nose is cold against Bruce’s throat. “Did you have a nightmare?” Bruce inquires. Damian shakes his head no.

“You said eight,” he just says accusingly. “It’s ten thirty.”

“There was… a complication,” Bruce apologizes. “Damian,” he says, detaching his son from him and standing up again, “This is Jason.”

“Is this a new Timothy?” Damian asks, and Bruce winces.

“No. He’s a friend. He’s staying with us for a while.”

Damian frowns. “He’s too young to be your friend.”

“That’s because he’s mine,” a familiar voice says. Bruce can _hear_ Dick’s grin. “What’s up, Jason?” His older son greets the temporary addition to their family with a shoulder clasp like they’ve known each other for ages. Bruce is grateful. Dick is barefoot and wearing pajamas, which means he probably just went downstairs looking for a late night snack and found them in the hallway instead. Jason is too dumbfounded to reply. “Dami, come on, I’m tucking you in.”

Damian grimaces but doesn’t protest, slides his hand into Dick’s, and they disappear upstairs.

“You’ll meet Tim tomorrow,” Bruce tells Jason.

“Master Timothy is still awake,” Alfred supplies helpfully. “He informed me he has a test tomorrow when he came back from school, and he hasn’t left his room since.” Jason sneers at that. Bruce just sighs.

“Not even for dinner?”

“I brought him a plate, sir.”

There was a time where Bruce would have scolded him for that, but by now they both know it is either caving in and force-feeding Tim or just having him slowly die of malnutrition because the boy just _forgets to eat_. “Thank you, Alfred. Can you show Jason to his room, please?”

Dick, who just came back from putting Damian to bed, puts his hand on Alfred’s forearm when he goes for Jason’s bag. “I’ll do it,” he says. “It’s the guest room next to mine, right?”

Alfred gives Bruce a questioning look. Bruce nods. It’s good for Jason to have someone his own age around, showing him he’s safe and wanted here. It’s good for Dick, too. Bruce worries about Dick constantly. Most people wouldn’t understand why—Dick is the Dream Child. Outstanding grades, excellent behavior, good at sports, and a loving sibling. But Bruce sees too much of himself in Dick, and he’s afraid. No one could tell Bruce wasn’t okay when he was a teen, not even Alfred. Well, _everyone_ could tell, but that was because of the sob story, not _Bruce_ himself. Bruce refuses to make the same mistakes with Dick. This is _not_ why he decided to have kids. He pets the top of Ace’s head absently, watches his son and Jason go up the stairs, chatting. Jason is almost as tall as Dick, and from behind, they look like siblings. God, he’s going to have to call Clark and tell him. The kid’s only been there twenty minutes without his partner knowing and Bruce already feels guilty. He takes his cellphone out of his breast pocket and types out a quick text.

 

>> _can you talk_

The reply comes in almost instantaneously. Bruce smiles automatically and then berates himself for it.

 

>> **Is it urgent?**

 

Fucking timezones. It’s lunchtime in Sydney, which means Clark is not alone. Bruce realizes suddenly how much he misses his voice, misses _him_ , and he bites his lower lip nervously to chase away the unpleasant feeling. It doesn’t work very well. He should know, by now, that pain has never been a deterrent for him.

 

>> _no_ , he sends regretfully.

>> **I’ll ring you later. Promise. x**

He shakes his head fondly at the small _x_ at the end and pockets his phone, and then heads for his study. He has numbers to look over and a report to write. He wants to look up Jason, too. He could request a background check, but it feels dishonest _. And looking into his past without him knowing doesn’t_. There it is, again, the goddamn little _voice_. This time, Bruce bites the inside of his cheek until it bleeds. It clears his head for an instant, and it’s sobering enough that he can get to work.

 

\- - 

 

In the morning, Bruce hears Jason waking up before the sun actually rises. He’s in the training room when the teen shuffles to the kitchen half asleep, and Bruce grabs a towel he presses furtively to his sweaty neck before joining him. Alfred isn’t up yet, because Alfred is a reasonable human being who wakes up at reasonable hours, so Jason seems to be engaged in a fight to the death with the coffee machine. Bruce chuckles to himself and clears his throat, and it takes a few minutes for Jason to realize he’s standing at the door.

“Sorry,” the kid says quickly. “I woke up and I couldn’t fall back asleep so I figured…”

Bruce stares at him intently. “What are you apologizing for, Jason?”

“I’m obviously in your way, no one else is awake—this is your private time and I’m intruding.”

“You’re not. I mean, you _are_ ,” he corrects himself immediately when Jason raises a dubious eyebrow, “but it doesn’t bother me. Here,” he presses the combination of buttons that will raise the coffee machine from its slumber and produce the godsend cappuccino they both apparently need, “let me show you.”

Jason watches Bruce pour them two cups, sits opposite him with his mug and laps at the frothed milk silently. In the borrowed pajamas he’s wearing, he looks tiny, younger than he is. Bruce recognizes Dick’s old soccer jersey and smiles. The dark blue color has faded a little after too many washes, but the 12 and WAYNE on the back are still totally legible. Dick doesn’t play soccer anymore. He’s too good at gymnastics, and his team is aiming for a national championship title this year—he doesn’t have time for other sports on the side now. Bruce caught him browsing through college websites a few days ago, which is a good and a bad sign. They went on a college tour together last year, visited all eight Ivies plus a bunch of good state schools. Dick could realistically get into whichever school he wants to, and that’s why Bruce isn’t sending him to Gotham U. He deserves better. But Dick hasn’t gone on a single one of the websites of the institutions they saw together, and Bruce thinks he understands why, but that doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it. It’s not that he _wants_ Dick to move out—he really doesn’t—, it’s that it would be the logical, more profitable choice for him.

“What am I gonna do?” Jason asks suddenly, taking Bruce abruptly out of his train of thoughts.

He sets his half-empty mug down. “What do you mean?”

“It’s Friday,” Jason shrugs. “Your kids are gonna go to school. What am I supposed to do?”

“Do you want to go with them?”

Jason looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “Ehh, I’m not exactly enrolled at Gotham Prep now, am I?”

“I could make a phone call.”

“Mister Wayne—”

“ _Bruce_ ,” Bruce interrupts him.

“Bruce. I’m not gonna be here long enough for things like _school_ to even—you know. It doesn’t matter. You won’t even notice I’m here,” he continues, and there’s that tone again, the small voice that _doesn’t sound right_. “I’ll stay in my room, I was just wondering if I could borrow a book.”

“You can borrow many books,” Bruce says slowly. “We’ll go to the library once the boys are off to school.”

Jason asks, “Oh, the one in town?”

“No,” Bruce muses, “The one upstairs. I’m sure I have at least a few things that might interest you.”

Jason’s eyes are glowing with excitement. _He’s just a kid_ , Bruce thinks. And no, he shouldn’t go down this road. It’s a dangerous one.

“Cool,” Jason says, and he doesn’t smile, but it’s in his voice.

 

\- -

 

“Damian, for the love of God, stop hitting your brother,” Bruce says for what feels like the thousandth time.

“He _stole_ my _pancake_ ,” Damian shrieks, affronted.

“You had four!” Tim protests. “I only had two and I’m entering adolescence! I need food, dad,” he proclaims dramatically. “Or else I’m gonna stay short forever, and Dick will be making fun of me for the foreseeable future, and it’ll be hell during family reunions. Do you want your sons to fight every Christmas, dad? Is that what you want for this family? An never-ending circle of agony and hate?”

“Chill out, Timbo,” Dick laughs, passing Bruce the milk. Bruce nods gratefully. In the corner of his eye, he can see Jason observing them cautiously. He’s sitting at Damian’s left, an empty chair between them. Safe choice.

“Father,” Damian requests, “I demand reparations.”

“Here you go, young master Damian,” Alfred says gently, setting two freshly baked pancakes in his empty plate. “Made especially for you.”

Damian pouts but accepts the food without further complaining, and Alfred pats his shoulder before disappearing again into the kitchen. Bruce has tried to get him to sit with them in the dining room for years now to no result. It’s ridiculous. He’s pretty sure Damian would call Alfred _granddad_ if he were a normal child.

“Hey,” Dick raises his eyes from his chemistry homework, which he insists on finishing in the morning every week even if he _knows_ Bruce dislikes it when they bring electronics at the table. “I just remembered, I need to stay at school until six. Coach wants me to work on my horizontal bar.”

“Alfred can pick up Tim,” Bruce reassures him. “ _I_ can even probably do it. Let me check.”

“I can wait up,” Tim chimes in, “It’s no trouble, I have work to do.”

“No, I’ll pick you up,” Bruce insists. “We’ll go get some new clothes for Jason downtown. Jason, is that okay with you?”

Jason stares at him like Bruce just addressed him in Chinese. “What?”

“I said, we’re getting you new clothes. You’re not going to walk around in Dick’s hand-me-downs for the rest of the week. Did you have other plans for this afternoon, or can we do that after I pick Tim up from class?”

“I really don’t need new stuff,” Jason shakes his head.

Bruce looks at him sternly. “You really do.”

Jason’s cheeks are bright red—from shame or anger, Bruce isn’t sure. Dick sets down his tablet and gazes at Jason, and then turns to him. “Dad, if Jason is more confortable wearing my stuff, maybe it’s not a bad idea.” His voice is soothing, brotherly, and Bruce is suddenly very, very proud of his oldest son. He’s also very, very mad at himself. If Clark was here, none of this crap would be happening. Clark would know how to manage Jason.

“Okay,” he says, and looks at Jason until Jason sighs and shakes his head. “Okay, we’ll talk about that later. I’m still picking you up, Tim.”

Tim mumbles a thank you around a mouthful of muffin. Damian, who took exactly two minutes to literally _inhale_ the pancakes Alfred served him, is now impatiently tugging at Dick’s sleeve and complaining that they’re going to be late. It’s a happy mess, the kind Bruce never imagined he would witness at Wayne Manor. His boys put on their coats and vests and all dutifully kiss him on the cheek before leaving, and he watches them drive away in the dark blue Jeep he gifted Dick on his sixteenth birthday. On his right, Jason seems wistful.

“If you give me a few minutes to get dressed for work, we can go and get you some books before I leave,” Bruce offers. The kid nods, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt.

 

\- - 

 

Bruce’s phone rings when he’s getting out of the shower. Hastily tying a towel around his waist, he answers the call without even checking Caller ID—this is his private cellphone, there are only seven people in the world who hold this number.

“ _Hey_ ,” Clark’s voice jingles happily in his ear. “ _Is this a good time? It’s seven thirty on your side of the world, right?”_

“I’m getting ready for work,” Bruce answers, putting him on speakerphone and setting his cell on the bed. “Hi.”

“ _Hi baby,_ ” Clark croons exaggeratedly. Bruce rolls his eyes and then remembers Clark cannot see him. “ _How are things? Has Damian murdered anyone yet?_ ”

“He came close several times.” His hair is dripping down his neck—he hates when that happens. “Red or blue tie?”

“ _Red_ ,” Clark replies immediately. “ _You wanted to tell me something._ ”

“It’s nothing,” Bruce lies. He’ll tell him later. Over Skype, probably. He hates talking to Clark when he can’t look him in the eye, watch him, read him. He knows it’s unhealthy. He shouldn’t be constantly analyzing the movements of everyone he loves, but he can’t stop himself. It’s an old habit, and it’s a useful one. “I was tired, I wanted to hear you.” That’s not exactly untrue.

“ _Baby_ ,” Clark says, and this time there is no mockery, only sincere concern.

“I’m fine,” Bruce reassures him hurriedly. “I miss you,” he admits, lower.

“ _I miss you too_ ,” Clark shoots back effortlessly, owning it fully, because this is who he is. Someone who loves and aches entirely in the open, proudly. Bruce is always flying around him like a moth orbiting a lamp because they are perfect opposites, light and darkness. He feeds off Clark’s humanity. Some days he feels bad about it. Most of the time he is just grateful. “ _I can’t wait to be back,_ ” Clark continues. “ _I miss touching you. I’d tell you what I’m planning on doing to you once I’m finally back in our bed but you have work and it’s almost midnight here_.”

Bruce laughs softly. “Tease.” He knows he’s blushing, can feel the warmth pleasantly spreading on his face.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Clark sighs, and he sounds content. Bruce can picture him easily, lying on a gigantic bed in his hotel room, wearing only sweatpants and his reading glasses. There’s probably a notebook not very far, because Clark works best right after an event, when his photographic memory still holds everything for him in bright colors and Dolby Stereo sound. “ _I love you_ ,” he says suddenly.

“Mmh mmh,” Bruce nods, and he can feel his guts twist. “You should sleep.”

“ _I will_ ,” his partner assures him. “ _Have a good day, Bruce._ ”

Clark has a particular way of saying his name—or maybe Bruce has a particular way of hearing it because it’s _Clark_. He makes it sounds precious, treasurable.

“Yeah,” Bruce replies, his voice a little hoarse. “Sleep well. Call me tomorrow.” He hangs up before Clark can tell him he loves him again. Resting his forehead against the mirror in his walk-in closet, he sighs. Today is a bad day. Go figure.

He’ll have to deal with himself later. There’s a fifteen year old waiting for him in his living room and he’s Bruce’s responsibility. It’s surreal, sometimes, to think of the fact the state trusts him with _children_. He thinks of Dick, who’s steadily walking on the path to success, the best heir Bruce could ever wish for. He thinks of Timmy, and his gentle smile, and his immeasurable kindness. He thinks of Damian and how small and how breakable he is, and of the way he curls up against Bruce’s side when he’s sleepy or cold, and of his little hand gripping Dick’s firmly to walk up the stairs, and of how he only ever stops frowning when he’s asleep. _They turned up quite okay_ , he smiles to himself. He needs to repeat this to his reflection more often.

 

\- - 

 

“So, where are you hiding the journalist?” Jason asks as they’re perusing the Waynes’ book collection. Jason seems to have taken a liking to the natural history section.

Bruce gives him a stern look. “You mean the man that shares my life?”

Jason shrugs. “Yeah, him. You two made a lot of noise when you came out, I remember.”

Bruce stops in front of a shelf, stare at titles for a second before asking, “Is this gonna be a problem?” He never forgets how ugly and hateful the world can be, but he _does_ sometimes forget some children weren’t raised in tolerance.

“Nah,” Jason smiles absently, absorbed in the back cover blurb of a book about dinosaurs. “I’m honestly just wondering where he is.”

“In Australia for a World Summit on sustainable energy.”

“That’s cool,” Jason says, and that’s it. It’s as simple as that, apparently. “When is he coming back?” _Am I going to meet him?_

“In a few days,” Bruce supplies, and he ignores the unasked question.

 

He leaves Jason in Alfred’s care with a pile of science books and drives himself to his office. It’s a quiet Friday, with none of the actual frenzy that usually adorns the end of the week at Wayne Enterprises. He has until four if he wants to be at Tim and Dick’s school by four thirty, and after a few phone calls and one short meeting, Bruce finds himself with too much free time and nothing to do. There’s always _something_ , obviously—he’s the owner of a major corporation—, but it’s neither urgent nor pressing, and he has no current interest looking over luncheon plans. On some days, he dreams of taking up the role of CEO and actually—actually _doing_ something. This is his father’s business, his father’s dream. He knows he wouldn’t be _as good_ as Lucius, his current CEO, which is only half of what’s holding him back. Bruce is—Bruce has never been the modest type. He _knows_ he’s smart. He knows Wayne Enterprises would thrive anyway.

He isn’t so sure _Bruce Wayne_ would. He doesn’t want to find out.

 

Harley calls him as he’s leaving the building for lunch. Her voice is lively and she talks too fast for him to understand her over the constant ruckus of Gotham’s biggest avenue, so he enters a random coffee shop and leans back against a wall in a dark corner.

“Give me a second, Harleen, I didn’t catch anything.”

She laughs and it pours over him like rain, her spastic energy, the way she sees the world in two shades only, black and red. It’s a bad day for her too, Bruce knows as soon as he hears her ragged breathing when she stops talking. “Don’t ask me if I’m okay,” she says immediately, as if she’s been reading his thoughts.

“I wouldn’t dare. Why are you calling?”

“How’s Jason?” she inquires. It’s a Russian doll of a question, a box in a box in a box. Bruce isn’t exactly sure of how he’s supposed to answer.

“He’s… adapting,” he ends up telling her.

“I’ll drop by on Monday,” she says, not asking if that works for him. She never does. “Your kids will be at school, that way.”

“That’s thoughtful of you.”

“That’s me,” she giggles. “Miss Thoughtful.” Then, more seriously: “Keep an eye on him.”

Bruce isn’t blind, and he’s not stupid. He’s been cataloguing Jason’s reactions since the very first minute he saw him. He knows Harley knows that, too. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I don’t know yet,” Harley sighs. “And you know how difficult it is to make claims you can’t back up in this goddamn fuckery of an institution that is the foster system.” She says all that without catching her breath, spikes of anger reaching Bruce through the receiver. “There were two other kids with him, in his old home. I mean, they’re still there. Cops caught the girl trying to leave for the fourth time yesterday. She won’t tell anyone why she wants to run away so badly.”

Something turns in Bruce’s stomach. “Is there anything I can do?”

“You can take care of Jason,” Harley says gently. “You can listen to him, even when he’s not talking.”

“He’s been… surprisingly good about the whole thing.” The guy behind the counter has finally spotted Bruce and is giving him the dirtiest look. Bruce bares his teeth.

“I remember…” Harley starts, her voice dreamy and mindful. “I remember when I was with—when, you know. When Pam got me out.”

“Yeah?” She never mentions that part of her life, not to Bruce. He knows what happened, he was there for most of it, but they never discuss it, the way they never discuss the circumstances of Damian’s birth or the death of Bruce’s parents. Some things are just off limits, no explanation required.

“Pam said I looked peaceful, the first days. I looked okay.” She lets her words trail off. Bruce listens to her silence. “I wasn’t okay. It was bad. I don’t think he’s okay, Bruce.”

“I know.” He slips his hand into his coat pocket, in the warmth of the expensive black wool. His fingers find his car keys. “I’m gonna take the afternoon off,” he tells her. He can picture her smile.

“That’s a good idea. Oh, and Bruce?”

“Yeah?”

“Call your husband.”

“We’re not married,” Bruce protests instinctively.

Harley’s chuckle has a judgmental ring to it. “You keep telling yourself that, babe.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. this kind of spiraled out of my control and is now a multi-chaptered work _and_ a series?? [flicks lights on and off] welcome to hell! 
> 
> a Big thank you to mia and blandine for beta-reading and enthusiastic cheering. i love u

Pretending is easy. Jason has been pretending for a long, long time; ages before he ended up in Bruce Wayne’s house. He smiles politely and swallows the bitter taste of constant terror, offers pretty lies wrapped in half-truths and prays no one will notice he’s not sleeping and that his hands are shaking. He doesn’t have to fake interest in the books the butler— _Alfred_ —keeps bringing him, at least. He loves reading. He used to love going to school, but that was before. He can’t afford childish whims now. Not when he has a grand total of four days to figure out a way to disappear forever. Not when he doesn’t know where Kori is or if Roy is okay. He could ask to make a phone call, he’s sure no one would refuse him that. But if he shows them there are people outside he cares about, there is always the possibility of someone guessing what he’s planning on doing, and he can’t have that. _Bruce Wayne_ would see through him in an instant, Jason knows. The rest of the world might look at the businessman and only see a vapid reformed playboy, but Jason spent an hour in a car with the guy and it was enough to notice the cracks. He’s brilliant, and caring, and tired, and jaded. But mostly brilliant. And that’s just Jason’s luck, isn’t it? Any other time, and he would be thanking the Lord. Isn’t that what all kids like him dream about? Ending up in a good house? Ending up in a _rich_ house?

He has a plan. Or at least, he has the _beginning_ of a plan. But first, he needs to, err, borrow a phone. The landline is out of question—it’s one of the fancy models, with a touchscreen and everything, and there are receivers all over the manor. He can’t risk someone picking up one of them while he’s calling and inadvertently listening on his conversation. That leaves him with cell phones. Damian is too young to have one, he wouldn’t dare taking Bruce’s, and one look at Tim’s lets him know he’s one of these assholes with an actual password on his iPhone, no chance of cracking it just like that. Dick’s WayneTech smartphone is usually laying around the living room when the older boy is at home, and Jason saw him punching in his password the first morning he spent at the manor—it’s 2006, Damian’s birth year, because apparently Dick is a cheesy loser. He just needs to _get the damn phone_ and be quick, and no one will know. He’ll see what he’ll _do_ after, when he has actually reached Roy and Kori. _If they’re still in the same house_ , a vicious little voice whispers inside his mind. He doesn’t want to imagine that possibility. If Kori finally succeeded in running away, or if Roy finally cracked and smashed that son of a bitch’s skull into a window—if he can’t get to them, then what is the point? What was the point of holding on, of enduring all this _crap_ —

Jason doesn’t realize he’s wheezing until he feels someone crouch in front of him, a short shadow and a hand hovering over his forearm.

“Jason,” the hazy silhouette says. It’s a young voice, a voice full of questions. _Tim,_ his fucked-up brain supplies. _Tim, it’s Tim._ “Jason,” Tim says again, “come on man, breathe with me.”

Jason would laugh, but his lungs have other plans. It’s hilarious, really. _Breathe with me_? Yeah, he’d like that. Only he can’t remember how to breathe. His heart is pumping blood furiously, craving oxygen—thump thump thump. “Can’t,” he croaks.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Tim says kindly, and for some weird unknown reason his voice kind of helps. “Can I—can I touch you? Just your wrist.”

Jason shakes his head. He isn’t sure if it’s a no or a yes, isn’t sure what he wants to communicate either. It feels like he’s crawling out of his own skin and the prospect of someone getting their hands on him is terrifying, but so is the possibility of Tim leaving him alone. Tim takes a hold of Jason’s hand, guides it slowly to his chest and presses it to his heart, palm splayed wide. He can feel Tim’s heartbeat under his fingers, unhurried and steady. Its sound seems to travel through Jason’s veins, inside his arm, up to his head. Like a metronome, counting every second. Jason clasps at Tim’s soft sweatshirt but Tim doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Focus on the rhythm of my heart, okay?”

He doesn’t know for how long they stay like this. He’s not counting the pulses, only latching onto them like Tim’s heartbeat is a lifeline and he’s drowning. Maybe he is. It feels like he is.

“Thank you,” he rasps after a while, when he finally emerges from the oppressing blurriness. He’s still clutching Tim’s sweater. Tim smiles, and his face is all firm, solid lines.

“No problem, dude. I know how to deal with this shit, that’s all.” He detangles Jason from him gently and comes to sit next to him against the wall. Their shoulders bump. “After the accident… ah, crap, you don’t want to hear this now,” he winces apologetically.

“It’s fine,” Jason shrugs. He still feels kind of shaky.

“Forget about it,” Tim says. “Hey, do you know what triggered it? The attack, I mean.”

“Nah,” Jason lies. “It’s the first time that happens to me.” That last part isn’t technically untrue. He gets nightmares and night terrors, wakes up in cold sweat yelling sometimes and it usually takes Roy climbing on top of him and restraining him to calm him down, but he’s never quite experienced something so paralyzing and scary while completely awake.

“Not nice, is it?” Tim smiles sadly.

Before he can formulate a more elaborate answer than just _No, not fucking nice at all_ , they hear the front door slamming shut.

“Dick’s home!” Tim exclaims happily, pushing himself up and then extending his hand to Jason to help him get up. “You gonna be okay?” Jason shakes his head yes but refuses the hand. He owes too much to Tim already and it’s making him increasingly uncomfortable.

Dick is back. Which means his phone is, too. He follows Tim as he trots to the kitchen where Dick is already making a snack, his backpack abandoned on a stool.

“Hey, nerd,” Dick grins before he ruffles Tim’s hair. “Is dad home yet?”

“Nope,” Tim punches him in the arm. “Way too early, even for a Sunday. How was practice?”

Dick sighs dramatically, and that’s answer enough, apparently. “Hey, Jason,” he greets him with a small nod, as if he just noticed there’s a stranger in his kitchen. “You good?”

For a split second, Jason feels defensive, ready to deny any accusation. Then he comes down from his initial state of instinctive alarm and realizes there’s very little chance Dick can actually read on his face that Jason couldn’t fucking _breathe_ a few minutes ago. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Good,” Dick nods again, and it’s almost comical. “Anyone wants anything to eat?” He has nutella on the side of his hand, and it’s threatening to spread to his sleeve anytime now.

“I’m good,” Jason repeats, “Thanks.”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Tim says, and Dick beams at him before grabbing a clean plate from the cupboard above him. He notices the chocolate on his hand and emits a light laugh, hums as he licks it, delighted. “I’m super hungry,” he comments. “Coach had us on still rings for _hours_ , I thought I would never feel my palms again.” Even as he says it, the lively spark in his blue eyes tells another story. Dick _loves_ gymnastics, that much Jason has gathered.

“I’m—I’m gonna go,” he says lamely and flees with haste. There is no place for him in the giant, stainless kitchen. There is no place for him between Tim and Dick, discussing Dick’s next competition. There is, technically, no place for him in this house.

If only he could get that damn phone. If only Dick left his bag in the hallway like a normal person.

“What are you snooping around for?” Damian’s sharp voice suddenly chirps from behind him, almost giving Jason a heart attack.

“Jesus fucking _Christ_ , what is it with you guys and sneaking up on people?” he protests.

Damian pinches the bridge of his nose in distaste. Sometimes it’s hard to remember the kid is nine. Everyone in this house looks like they’re A) on drugs, B) too smart for their age anyway.

“That’s a bad word,” Damian says. “You’re supposed to put a dollar in the swear-jar.”

“You have a fucking _swear-jar_?” Jason can’t believe his fucking ears. This house is unreal. “What am I saying, of course you do. And, hey, I wasn’t snooping.”

“That’s two bad words,” Damian glowers.

“That’s too bad, shithead, I don’t have any money.”

“I’m telling Father,” Damian threatens, and Jason can’t help himself, he has to reach for the kid’s nose and boop it. Unsurprisingly, Damian tries to bite him.

“I’m sure you will,” he snorts. “What’s your deal anyway, baby ninja?” It’s nice, focusing on Damian, on holding a conversation. He almost forgets he was trembling and lost not even half an hour ago.

Damian’s expression turns confused. “My deal?”

“You call him _Father_ ,” Jason shrugs. “The others don’t do that, so it’s not a rich kids thing, it’s a _you_ thing.”

“That’s how I was raised,” Damian says slowly, but there’s an edge of defensiveness to his tone that definitely wasn’t there before. So, Jason touched a nerve. Interesting. He’s not going to push, though. He doesn’t have beef with the kid, and his curiosity is not worth him _actually ratting Jason out_ to Bruce.

“Fair enough,” he says smoothly, putting his hands up in the universal symbol for peace. “I’m going to my room. No snooping, promise.”

Damian slants his eyes until they’re just two thin lines. “You do that.”

Looking mournfully toward the kitchen where Dick still has his stupid phone in his stupid backpack, Jason decides retreat is strategically his best option. He still has a few books upstairs he hasn’t read. It’s like catching up on three years of missed public education in one weekend. He wants to make the best of it—who knows when he’ll have access to a library again after he leaves.

The room he’s sleeping in is bigger than any room Jason had ever seen before in his life. That’s not what a guestroom is supposed to look like, he knows. He wonders if the boys’ rooms are even bigger, even fancier than that. He went into Dick’s room the first night he got to the manor to borrow clothes, but he was too tired and stressed to actually look around. He hasn’t dared ask for a tour since then.

Besides the king-size bed, there’s a desk, an armchair, a nightstand, and a closet. The closet isn’t walk-in, but it’s big enough that it’s practically the same thing. It’s still empty save from Jason’s bag and a few things Dick lent him, which makes it seem even bigger. All the furniture is glass and ebony. He didn’t really dare touch anything at first. Above the bed, as large as the headboard, there’s a painting. Jason recognizes the signature on the right corner: that’s a Picasso. He’s pretty sure it’s a real one, too. He wonders how much it’s worth. Lets himself imagine stealing it, selling it on the black market somehow, making enough to take his ratty jeans and sneakers and leave this god-awful town. He’d take Roy and Kori with him, of course. Somewhere safe and sunny, where Roy could learn how to skate again, slowly, and Kori would be happy and free.

It’s a nice dream. He only gets those if he’s awake, daydreaming. The night is for darker matters. The night is for monsters and thieves.

 

\--

 

“Listen,” Bruce says, looking away from the screen, “I realize now that it was a pretty stupid idea.”

Clark raises a pixelated eyebrow. He doesn’t look any less mad at Bruce, even in low quality video. “You _think_?” He takes a deep breath, visibly trying to remain civil. Bruce is suddenly aching to touch him, would give anything to have this conversation actually face to face. “How are the kids?” Clark asks finally.

“Fine,” Bruce says. “They miss you. Damian has been crankier than usual.”

“I’m not going to get to see him for another week after I get home,” Clark says desolately. “I hate this.”

“Don’t remind me,” Bruce growls. “Dick’s team made regionals again,” he says after a small silence.

“I know,” Clark smiles, pride so obvious in his sunny eyes Bruce has to look away for a second. “He texted me.” He sucks at the pen he was absently twirling between his fingers earlier, brows furrowing. “Bruce, about the kid…”

“Jason,” Bruce corrects.

“I’m not mad. I get it.”

“You’re kind of mad,” Bruce scowls.

Clark chuckles. “Yeah, okay. But only because you thought not telling me for _three days_ that you brought a new foster kid into our home was okay. Three days, Bruce. We’re partners, that’s not how it works.”

“I’m sorry.” It hurts to say it, it claws at his throat as it leaves. In these moments, all the reasons why he’d be better off alone resurface at the same time in his mind, bubbling up like boiling water in a pan.

“I know you are,” Clark says, and just like that, it’s like he took the water off the stove. “And I’m not mad _about the kid_. I could never be mad about something like that.” He winces when the pen’s cap pinches his bottom lip, swears softly under his breath. “What is he like?”

“He’s lost,” Bruce says. _He reminds me of myself_ , he doesn’t say, and keeps it deep inside, buried. “He’s smart. Loves to read. The kids like him well enough.”

Clark looks wistful. “What happens at the end of the week, when his time with you is up?”

“They—they’ll put him in a group home, probably,” he grimaces. Bruce’s only direct experience with group homes is the one he picked up Dick from all these years ago. It’s not exactly his fondest memory as far as foster care is concerned. “For a few weeks, a month or so. Then they’ll place him in a family.”

“And you want to keep him.” It’s not a question. Clark knows. They’ve stopped playing guessing games years ago.

“I want to _help_ him,” Bruce tempers. “Clark, he’s afraid of something. Harley thinks his previous foster father used to beat him, maybe worse. There were other kids with him in that house, a fourteen year old girl—”

“Jesus,” Clark whispers, dragging his hand down his face. “Jesus, Bruce.”

“I don’t have it in me to send him back to that hell,” Bruce says. “You should have seen the way he looked at me, when I got him from the station. As if I was going to—as if he thought, shit, that I was going to kill him or something.” On his desk, his work phone is buzzing. “Give me a second,” he tells Clark, and picks up. “Amanda, why the hell are you calling me on my cell?”

He hears his secretary huff from outside the door _and_ through the phone. “Your office line is disconnected, mister Wayne.”

He stares at the phone he never actually put back on its base after switching to Skype with Clark. “Uh. Indeed.” On the other side of the world, Clark is laughing at him.

“Your three o’clock is in the waiting room,” Amanda says, sounding way too chipper at the prospect.

“Give me a minute, I’ll be right there,” Bruce groans. He can make Oliver Queen wait. It’s only fair. “I have to go,” he says, turning his attention back to his partner, dropping the business voice.

Clark smiles. “I heard. Listen, I can catch the next flight.”

“No.” There are a lot of things Bruce allows himself out of pure selfishness, but this is not one of them. “This is an important job for you, and I have the situation here under control.”

“He’ll still be there when I come back, right?” Clark asks. “I want to meet him. We can decide what kind of help we can offer him then together. As a family.”

“As a family,” Bruce repeats numbly. “Yeah.” He flips his wrist over to check his watch. 15:17. “I really have to go.”

“Call me later,” Clark says, waving at the screen like the goofball he is. “I love you.”

The door opens just as he mumbles _Me too_ and disconnects the call. Oliver doesn’t look half as pissed as he ought to.

“Wayne, you _asshole_ ,” he laughs, drags Bruce into a hug as soon as Bruce gets up from his chair. “I was on time for once in my life, dude.”

Bruce rolls his eyes and detangles himself from the embrace. “Serves you right.”

On the other side of the still open door, Amanda is making apologetic gestures.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Oliver tells her. “He knows it’s all my fault.”

“I really do,” Bruce reassures her, and she closes the door silently. “I’m never letting you meet me in a professional context ever again. It turns out to be mistake every damn time.”

Oliver throws himself on the couch and puts his feet up on the coffee table because he’s an obnoxious jerk who enjoys pretending he’s an idiot. “What, even that time in Mexico?”

Bruce sits back at his desk. “Especially that time in Mexico.”

“You’re no fun, Brucie.” Oliver smirks at him knowingly, that little smartass smile he used to use on Bruce all the time when they were young. “Listen, I’m really here for business.”

“I’m awed and amazed,” Bruce deadpans.

“Oh, shut up. Luthor came to me with a proposition. He wants to buy Q-Core.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “But you’re not selling.”

“Not officially,” Oliver grimaces.

The silence that follows stretches uncomfortably, as Oliver does his best to never meet Bruce’s eyes and Bruce looks for a tactful manner to breach the subject.

“Ollie,” he says finally, “Are you having financial troubles?”

“I wouldn’t call them troubles. I _wouldn’t_ ,” he insists when Bruce glares, “It’s really not that bad. Q-Core isn’t doing well, but the rest of Queen Industries is staying afloat. It’s just… Bruce, it’s either selling Q-Core or I’m gonna have to start firing people _en masse_ , and that’s not how I do things. You know that.”

“So you want me to buy a sinking tech branch I have no use for, keep it warm for you, and then let you buy it off me again?”

Oliver scratches the back of his head nervously. “Err. Kinda.”

“What made you think I’d be receptive to this ridiculous plan?”

“You don’t want Lex Luthor blasting a hole in your oldest friend’s company? You wouldn’t stand for so many folks losing their jobs? You can probably turn Q-Core into a WayneTech subsidiary? You love me? You’re a good person?”

Bruce snorts. “You’re getting desperate, Queen.”

“You want me to beg? Because I will.” He probably really would. Bruce has never known Ollie as anything other than shameless.

“I know how you sound when you beg,” he sneers, wolfish, because two can play this game. “It has no novelty and is of no interest to me.”

“That’s harsh, Brucie.”

“The world is harsh,” Bruce shrugs. “Come back next week with an actual business proposal. I’m not buying a sinking ship, but if you have a decent rebranding plan to offer, I might consider it.”

Oliver beams at him. “You’re the best.”

“I am aware,” Bruce says coolly. He sinks further into the comfortable leather of his armchair, allows himself to slip out of his role as owner of Wayne Enterprises and back into _Bruce Wayne_. “Are you okay? I mean, generally.”

“Mmh mmh. Dinah says hi, by the way.” Oliver chews on his bottom lip silently for a while. Bruce lets him take his time. “We still haven’t succeeded in—you know,” he gestures vaguely. “I don’t think—I don’t think it’s ever going to happen, Bruce.”

“There’s always adoption,” Bruce says cautiously.

“I know.” Oliver’s voice sounds low and wounded. “I know, and I’m not saying it’s not a respectable alternative, I just… I don’t think she’s ready to consider it just yet. It has… implications.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do,” Oliver smiles, on the edge of bitter. “Hey, you should come over for dinner sometime. All of you. We miss the kids, dude. I haven’t seen Damian in forever.”

 _I’m not sure Dinah will appreciate having all the monsters simultaneously under her roof,_ Bruce almost says, and then he realizes. Of course she will. That’s _exactly_ what she wants. “Sure,” he nods. “When Clark comes back. Damian is at his mother’s during the school break, but after that. Sure.”

When Oliver leaves an hour later Bruce feels foolishly, egoistically better.

 

\--

 

Of course Dick catches Jason with his phone, because _why_ would Jason’s life ever go smoothly.

“Listen,” he starts, trying to hide the fact his hands are shaking, “This is not what it looks like,” he finishes lamely.

Dick raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly does it look like?”

“Like I’ve—like I’ve stolen your phone?”

“Okay,” Dick says slowly, a dubious expression on his face. “So, what’s going on?”

“I was checking the weather.”

“I have a passcode.”

“Yeah, I noticed. So, your phone is useless, I’m putting it back where I found it and I’m leaving your room and you can forget this ever happened because you’ll never see me again anyway after like, less than a week.”

“Jason,” Dick says, and he sounds so much like an older brother something inside Jason’s ribcage starts hurting mysteriously. “If you need to make a phone call, no one will stop you. You can ask.”

“No,” Jason says, categorical. “No, I’m good, thanks. Sorry again for taking your phone, that was rude.”

Dick unlocks his phone and shoves it into Jason’s hands. “ _Call them_.”

“I said I—”

“Yeah, I know. I was in the system too. You know they took me from Bruce, once? Before he adopted me. When all that shit with his coming-out was going down, a social worker deemed him _unfit_ ,” he almost spits the word, “to raise me. So they took him to court.” Jason’s hands tense mechanically around the smartphone. “The first week was crap. They knew I’d try to contact him, so they’d put all the communication devices under lock. I spent my lunch money at school the first day at a phone booth so I could call him for three minutes and tell him I was okay.”

“He got you back,” Jason states uselessly. Obviously, he got Dick back, and then went on to adopt two other kids. A happy ending. Yip-fucking-pee.

“Yeah, he did,” Dick grins, like there’s an inside joke there Jason cannot understand. “He has good lawyers.” He looks Jason straight in the eye, so intense Jason feels kind of dizzy. Dick has the bluest irises he has ever seen, contrasting bluntly with his golden skin, like sea and sand. “Whoever it is you’re so anxious about getting in touch with, use my phone. If you’re scared I’ll tell anyone—I won’t. I promise. Not that you have any reason to worry here, but I get it. I’d do anything for my family, too.”

“Thank you,” Jason whispers, and he hates how young his voice sounds, how weak. He doesn’t think Dick would ever try to hurt him willingly, he seems way too good-natured for that, but that’s not a reason to let his guard down. There is nothing he can hold over Dick Wayne, no power, no leverage at all. Dick knows how to destroy him, now. Even if Jason wipes away every trace of his passage, deletes the number he’s currently punching in. That’s one more person that knows you can get to Jason without having to touch _Jason_.

The line rings once, twice, three times—

“ _Who’s calling_ ,” Roy grunts on the other side of the call, and Jason could _cry_. Relief comes flooding in, punching him in the guts.

“Roy,” he says, keeping his tone the lowest possible. Dick has left the room to give him some privacy, but one never knows. “Roy, shit, it’s me.”

Roy chuckles, disbelieving. “ _Jay?_ ” Jason can hear him fumbling with his burner phone, and there’s some other background noise as well, and then a door slams shut. “ _Shit, bro. I thought I would never hear your voice again._ ”

“It’s me,” he repeats, can’t chase away the glee bubbling up in his throat. “They didn’t send me to juvie.”

“ _You kidding? Only you, Todd. You fucker, how did you get that lucky?_ ”

“Bill couldn’t come, because Kori was still missing, so they assigned me another social worker and she worked it out. Ah, fuck, Kori. Where’s Kori, Roy?”

“ _She’s here. The cops found her on the highway. She was trying to hitch a ride to New York._ ”

“Can I—can I talk to her?”

He can picture Roy’s grim face just as he answers, “ _She’s napping. Tony hasn’t come back yet, and he’s going to make her do laundry and shit, you know how it is. So I told her to get some rest_.”

“How is she?”

“ _You know,”_ Roy says, and leaves it at that. It’s bad, shit, it’s fucking bad.

“I’m gonna come get you,” Jason promises. “I just need to find a way to get out of here, find some cash. But I’m coming to get you guys, and we’ll be smarter this time. We’re gonna make it, alright?”

“ _Jay_ …” Roy sounds tired. “ _Jay, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Where are you? Are they treating you okay?_ ”

“That’s not the point!” Jason protests.

“ _It kind of is. Are they? Because if they are, stay the fuck put. Kids like us, we don’t get lucky twice, brother_.”

“I need—,” Jason begins, doesn’t find the words. “I have to come and see you, at least. Come on, Roy. I need to see Kori.”

“ _You can get a ride with your new folks?_ ”

Jason shakes his head vehemently before realizing his friend can’t see him. “I’m not asking _them_.”

“ _Don’t be a stubborn asshole, Todd_.”

“Let it go, I’m not asking them!” He doesn’t have the heart to tell Roy he won’t be with the Waynes very long.

“ _Okay, asshat. Chill. Shit, Tony just got back. Listen, call me again. You know when. Call me again tomorrow, okay?_ ”

“Yeah,” Jason breathes out, dry throat and tears at the corner of his eye. “Yeah, take care of yourself. Tell Kori—tell her,” he can’t say it, shit, he can’t say it.

“ _I will_ ,” Roy promises. And then he hangs up.

Jason curls up on himself and allows the tears to fall.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i....... really dislike this chapter it feels like a shitty filler which is ridiculous because technically?? so many things are happening??? ANYWAY. i hope you guys enjoy it, at least. we're GETTING SOMEWHERE NARRATIVELY SPEAKING! YIPPEE! 
> 
> i'm taking the opportunity to say i don't tag minor/background ships because it's uncool to people looking for fic of said ship, and i'm usually on the scarce side of tagging for triggers, but if you feel like there are things i'm not tagging that should be tagged, do not hesitate to tell me. 
> 
> this fic now has a [picspam post](http://bibrucewayne.tumblr.com/post/137204203084/i-was-naive-and-hopeful-and-lost-part-one-of)! also i made a [mix](http://bibrucewayne.tumblr.com/post/137588554429/what-do-you-think-would-happen-to-bruce-wayne-if) about bruce being sad and gay and Not Batman.
> 
> ahhh, also. this chapter's second half is... not happy. at all. and there are some really nasty slurs thrown at people. just a heads up. i'm so sorry if it's of any consolation writing it was very painful

Clark breathes in Gotham’s polluted atmosphere and smiles. There really is no place like home.

It should feel weird, calling Gotham his home. God knows he used to hate the place. But like anywhere he’s ever lived, he made it his. Smallville will forever be his hometown, and Metropolis made him the man he is today, but he feels at peace in Gotham. In the middle of a traffic jam, cars honking too loudly and folks yelling insults at each other under the grey sky, Clark finally lets go of the quiet fear that is always looming at the back of his head when he’s away.

“Did you have a nice flight, Master Clark?” Alfred asks from the driver’s seat.

“Mostly, yeah,” Clark nods. He’s still kind of jet-lagged, but if he starts napping in the car, he’ll feel sick and sleepy for the whole week. “How are you, how is everyone?”

“We’ve managed to survive in your absence,” Alfred teases fondly. “You know how Master Bruce gets. He missed you more than he cares to admit.”

Clark was aware of that, of course, but it’s always different to hear it from someone else. From someone who loves Bruce and knows him better than anyone, too. “I missed him too,” he says. “I missed the kids.”

“They will all be delighted to see you, of course. Timothy refused to see the last James Bond movie without you, and Richard didn’t want to go without him, so no one in the house has seen it yet. They become quite insufferable if ever someone has the misfortune of mentioning spies.”

“That does sound like Tim,” Clark chuckles. The red Sedan before them brakes suddenly and Alfred’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. “How is—how is Jason?”

“He’s a good kid. But that is not what you’re asking, is it?”

Clark blushes lightly. “No, not really.”

“I do not believe him to be an immediate threat to the family,” Alfred says after a short silence. There is a very obvious _but_ hanging in the air.

“And to Bruce?” Clark asks.

Alfred takes the opportunity of a red light to turn around and look him in the eye as he answers. “Master Bruce has always shown a predisposition to latching onto things that will ruin him in the long run.”

 

\--

 

The woman in the living room is unlike anyone Jason has ever met. She’s dressed in all white, a long satin dress that gives her a regal look and a fur coat that falls just right on her waist. Just glancing at her high-heeled shoes made Jason dizzy. He stays where he stopped on his feet when he first saw her, petrified, and just gapes at her dumbly. She’s sitting cross-legged on one of the nice patterned armchairs, browsing through _Vogue_. When Bruce enters the room from another door, she doesn’t even raise her head from her magazine, keeps turning the pages absently.

“You could have waited a few hours,” Bruce spits in lieu of greeting. He sounds bitter and frustrated. “Clark is on his way from the airport, you could have—”

“You’re already late,” the woman cuts him off severely. “And I couldn’t care less about your boy toy’s feelings. Now, where is my son?”

“Talia,” Bruce glowers, and he seems ready to say something else, only he notices Jason standing in the corner. His expression softens. “Jason, what are you doing here?”

Jason reddens. “I was looking for you.”

 _Talia_ turns to him too at that, as if she hadn’t seen him before. Jason knows she did, she gave him a dirty look when he first entered the room that made it very clear she thought he didn’t belong. “Another stray?” she asks. It shouldn’t sting, but it does anyway. Damned hyper-sensibility.

“That is none of your concern,” Bruce tells her coolly. “Jason, be a dear and tell Damian his mother is here to pick him up, would you?”

Jason nods and flees the room as fast as he can. Now that he knows, it seems evident. Talia and Damian share the same cold green eyes, and even if his skin isn’t as dark as hers he can see the flagrant resemblance now.

So Damian isn’t adopted, then. It does make some kind of weird sense. If he looks for it, observing Damian as he opens the door before Jason even had time to knock, he can distinguish Bruce in his features, too.

“What do you _want_ ,” Damian glares. It isn’t very intimidating, because the kid is _tiny_. It’s been a week, and Jason is starting to understand there is a lot of repressed anger and frustration in Damian, but not any actual malice. After the scene he just witnessed in the living room, it’s not really hard to guess where it’s coming from, either.

“Your mom’s downstairs,” Jason shrugs. “Bruce sent me to get you.”

He can still easily make out the yelling match happening on the first floor, and that means Damian can, too. Jason winces as Talia’s _“You should never had gotten custody!”_ resonates loudly. More worrying than Damian’s hurt frown is the lack of reply from Bruce. It means he believes it, and it means Damian knows he believes it. Without even thinking about it, Jason crouches in front of the smaller boy to find himself at eye-level with him.

“Hey, nerdface.” Damian doesn’t reply, but he’s paying attention to him and not to the shouting, which is already something. “You know they’re fighting because they care, right?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Damian says, and Jason could _swear_ he hears a sniff.

Before he can formulate an appropriate answer, the door opposite Damian’s room opens wide, and Tim beams at them excitedly. “Clark’s here! I saw the car from my window!”

Sure enough, they all hear the heavy sound of the front door opening then slamming shut, accompanied by the characteristic screech of a suitcase rolling on the marble floor of the hall and Ace’s happy barks.

“Come on,” Jason nudges Damian. “Grab your bag.” The kid disappears into his room.

Tim is watching them, still smiling. “You’re good with him.”

“He _hates_ me,” Jason mumbles.

“He really doesn’t. He hasn’t tried to murder you yet.”

“You’re joking, right?”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “ _My_ first week at the manor, Damian attempted to stab me with a fork. Twice.”

“I was four,” Damian says, reappearing next to Jason with a backpack that looks like it’s thrice his weight. “If I were to try again now, I would succeed.”

“Of course you would,” Tim nods fondly. He hooks two fingers around the bag’s top strap to prevent Damian from toppling over and guides him towards the stairs. “Come on, you don’t want to make your mom wait.”

 

Clark Kent is taller than what Jason expected. He has a few inches on Bruce, and he’s got wider shoulders, too. He wears glasses that make him look like a geek and eat half his face, and the dopey grin he flashes them as he greets them takes at least five years off him. Damian elbows Jason and escapes Tim’s hold slyly to run directly into Clark’s open arms.

“ _Baba!_ ” he yelps when Clark grabs him and raises him high, swirling. It’s the first time since the very first night Jason got here that he hears Damian sound like the child he is. Behind them, he can see Talia shake her head, annoyed. Damian says something in a language Jason doesn’t understand, and Clark puts him down and kisses the top of his head.

“How are you, little man?” he asks him softly, and then he says something in the strange language too. Jason glances up at Bruce.

Bruce just looks… relaxed. Calmer than Jason has ever seen him. He’s watching his son and his lover with an alien, tender expression on his face.

Talia clicks her heel on the floor and whistles. “Damian, we’re going to miss our flight.”

“He hasn’t seen him in fifteen days,” Bruce growls. “Give them a minute.”

“I do not have a _minute_ , Bruce. It’s not my fault your boyfriend decided to take off to the other side of the world for God knows how long.”

Bruce now looks scandalized. “ _Decided to_ —are you _kidding_ me? That’s—that’s rich, coming from you, absent mother of the year—!”

Talia silences him with the nastiest glare Jason has ever seen. “How _dare you_ ,” she hisses. Clark instinctively pulls Damian closer to him, and she notices immediately. “Can you let go of my son,” she demands, ice-cold, “So we can finally leave for the _one week_ of _court-mandated_ time we have together?”

Damian grabs Clark’s wrist furtively, and then he runs to Bruce who instantaneously sinks into a squat to hug him tightly. “Be good to your mother,” he whispers into his son’s dark curls. “Don’t forget your reading assignment.”

 

When the door closes and Talia and Damian are gone, the atmosphere in the hall is tense and weird, silence only disturbed by Ace who is still happily jumping around Clark.

“Hi,” Jason says, because someone has to. “My name is Jason.”

That seems to shake Bruce and Clark out of their torpor. “Hi, yeah, I know,” Clark extends his hand for him to shake, an eerie parallel to the night Bruce brought Jason to the manor. “I’m Clark, it’s nice to meet you.” He turns to Tim, clasps his shoulder and brings him into a crushing hug. “Hey, young man. How’s it going?”

Tim mutters something against Clark’s sweater that Jason doesn’t catches, but it makes the journalist laugh.

They all end up in the dining room, sitting around tea and scones because it’s five o’clock and Alfred is still British to the core. Jason commits the taste of marmalade on cream to memory dutifully. Who knows when he’ll get such refined food again—if ever. Tim is munching on chocolate-covered cherries and he already had two falling into his cup of tea, but he doesn’t seem to care, too enthralled by Clark’s stories about Australia.

Bruce shoots Jason concerned glances from time to time, and Jason can’t figure out what is troubling him. He did that when Harley visited to make sure Jason was okay and go over paperwork, too. Kept eyeing Jason as if he was going to disappear right under their noses.

No one has ever looked at Jason this way before.

 

\- -

 

“So,” Jason starts, throwing himself on Tim’s bed, “What’s the deal with Damian’s mom?”

Tim takes an earphone off, swirls around from his laptop, his chair squeaking. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

And the thing—the thing is, Jason could get used to this. Jason _got_ used to this, to a certain extent. He hates how hopeful being in this house makes him feel. He hates that the worry that nags at him constantly is so easily soothed by Tim’s ridiculous jokes or Dick’s effortless kindness, as if fifteen years of grimness can be erased by money and smiles. Above all, he hates that part of him believes all this, truly believes that this family could be what saves him if only he was given the chance. It’s wistful fucking thinking, is what it is.

“I was just—just asking about Damian’s mom,” he says, pushing his legs up on the wall so he can stare at the ceiling. Tim rolls his eyes at him.

“Dami’s grandfather is some kind of real estate mogul in Saudi Arabia.”

“So that’s where they’re from?” Jason is no expert, but the language Damian used earlier didn’t sound like Arabic.

“Not exactly,” Tim says, taking off his earphones completely to chew on the chord mechanically. “I know Talia’s mother is Iranian, and her father was born in the Himalayas. Damian’s first language is Farsi.”

“Is that what Clark—?”

“Yeah. Both he and dad speak it. I understand the basics, but not enough that Damian can’t talk shit about me, apparently,” he chuckles.

“You don’t call him dad,” Jason frowns. “Clark.”

Tim stares at him wordlessly for a while, but it’s way less impressive since Jason is looking at him upside-down. “I don’t know,” he says finally. “I mean, he’s not technically—you know. He hasn’t adopted us. So, legally, he’s not my father.”

“Does that really matter?” He doesn’t know why suddenly this feels like vital information. Well, he _knows_. But it’s a slippery slope and Jason shouldn’t go down that road.

“No,” Tim shrugs, oblivious to Jason’s internal struggles. “It doesn’t matter, that’s not the reason. But it’s a fact. I don’t know, man. I’ve known Bruce since I was a baby, he was a friend of my parents. My mom—ah, well. When I was eight, almost nine, we got into a car accident, my parents and I. My mom died on the spot. My dad—my dad can’t do much.” He flinches, looks away, and Jason wants to tell him he doesn’t have to say more, only he’s pretty sure Tim would actually be offended at that. “Bruce took me in immediately, I was never really even in the system. He adopted me, what—a year later? He had always been a father figure to me anyway, it wasn’t that big of a stretch to call him dad. It’s different, with Clark.”

“My dad’s in jail,” Jason says. “My mom, she—she died when I was twelve. Overdose.”

Tim winces in sympathy. “That’s tough, man.”

“Yeah, it’s fucked up.” He pushes himself up to get back into a normal position again—all his blood has rushed to his head and it’s making him dizzy. “Do you know when Dick will be back?”

If Tim is surprised by the inquiry, he doesn’t show it. “I don’t even know where he is,” he chortles. “I mean, he has to be back before curfew, so I guess he’ll be here around eleven for sure?”

Jason grimaces. That’s way too late for Roy to still be able to pick up the phone. They’ve only talked three times since that first night Dick gave him his phone, and he still has no idea what they’re going to do once CPS drop Jason into a group home. He briefly considers asking Tim for help, but the rational part of him knows it’s a stupid idea. “No problem,” he smiles instead, wide and fake. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” Tim says, just as Jason starts to wonder how to leave the room without things getting awkward. “Are you going to be okay?”

“I—” Jason stutters. Tim’s big blue eyes are earnest and waiting and suddenly he feels very, very tired.

Jason tells him everything.

 

\- -

 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Clark asks cautiously. Bruce just glares. “Right,” he sighs. “What was I thinking.”

“Do _you_ want to talk about it?” Bruce counterattacks.

“I don’t know, Bruce. I just sent off my son after literally two minutes of seeing him, I’m exhausted from a thirteen hours flight, and my partner is behaving like an emotionally constipated child.” He ignores Bruce’s wounded expression. Coddling isn’t what the man needs. “I would probably feel more comfortable if I didn’t know Talia Al Ghul’s lawyers are looking for a way to take Damian away from us definitively as we speak.”

“They can’t do that,” Bruce replies automatically, “I’m his father.”

“We’re facing a Saudi court and you’re gay,” Clark retorts. It comes out harsher than what he intended, and he immediately goes to touch Bruce’s shoulder and soften the blow, but Bruce recoils. “Okay,” Clark says slowly, taking a step back. “Okay, I’m sorry, can we please not do this? I literally just got back.”

“We’re not doing anything,” Bruce says, stilted, leaning back on the windowsill. It’s the furthest away he can get from Clark without actually jumping out the window.

“Really? Come here, then. I didn’t even get a proper hello.”

He half-expects Bruce to flip him off, so it’s a surprise when Bruce actually obeys and walks to him slowly until they’re just a few millimeters apart. Clark can discern the different shades of blue of Bruce’s irises.

“Hello,” Bruce deadpans.

“Hey,” Clark says, and it comes out a little hoarse, a little needy. As if of their own accord, his hands immediately rise to cup his lover’s face, and he drops a quick kiss to his nose. Bruce’s hands find his waist and bring him even closer, and then he’s tilting his head back so Clark can kiss him on the mouth. “Hey,” he says again when they break apart to breathe.

“Hi,” Bruce whispers, and this time it sounds genuine. “Is this the part where I apologize?”

“Yeah,” Clark laughs feebly. “Yeah, it is. You can get on your knees, too. I hear it helps.”

Bruce sneers. “Sounds like someone’s taking advantage of the situation, mister Kent.” His fingers trail lightly down Clark’s abs anyway, a ghost caress. Clark shivers.

“The kids are a room away,” he protests weakly.

“Then lock the door,” Bruce grunts against his jaw before biting down gently. “Come on. I missed you.”

“Okay, okay.” He detaches Bruce from him but keeps a hand curled around the back of his neck, navigates them both to the door so he can turn the key and assure them some privacy. Bruce immediately presses him against the wall and then sinks to his knees, unceremoniously undoing Clark’s pants to mouth at him through the white cotton of his briefs. “Babe,” Clark sighs. “I can’t help but think this isn’t the—the _healthiest_ of coping mechanisms.”

Bruce pulls off to stare at him dubiously. “You’re saying you _don’t_ want me to suck your dick?”

“That is—that is definitely not what I’m saying.” He brushes a strand of dark hair back from Bruce’s forehead tenderly to look him in the eye. “Promise me we’ll talk after.”

Bruce huffs, irritated. “Do we have to?”

“Yes, you big baby. You can’t use sex to avoid expressing your feelings, that’s not how it works.”

“Okay, you win,” he rolls his eyes. “I promise. Now, are you going to fuck my mouth, or do you want to take me out on a date first?”

Clark’s gaze darkens and Bruce hums appreciatively.

Neither of them is in a state to form coherent sentences for a while after that.

 

\- -

 

“I want the record to state I said multiple times I think this is a terrible idea,” Dick mutters as he takes a left turn. On his right, riding shotgun in Dick’s Jeep, Jason is staring out the window silently.

“No one forced you to come,” Tim chirps from the backseat. “I know how to drive, you’re the one who didn’t want to give me your keys.”

Dick glares at him through the rearview mirror. “You’re twelve, Tim.”

“I’m _thirteen_ , thank you very much, asshole.”

“You’re still way too young to even be thinking about driving a car.”

“If you’re going to bicker the whole way up there,” Jason interrupts them, “just drop me off somewhere. I didn’t ask for your help.”

Rolling his eyes, Dick checks for the third time that the GPS is still saying they’re on the right path. He’s never been to that part of Gotham before. “Listen,” he tells Jason in what he hopes is his best Big Brother Voice, the one that gets even Damian in line, “we’re just here to make sure your friend is alright. You’re on probation, and if someone calls the cops, even our dad won’t be able to keep you out of juvie.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jason shakes his head. There’s an edge of exasperation to his voice, but Dick is pretty sure he’s just worried sick. When Dick handed him his phone earlier in the afternoon, the kid he’s been calling dutifully every other day didn’t pick up, which apparently means something must have gone wrong. “You don’t even have to get out of the car.”

“You let me be the judge of that when we get there,” Dick insists. Jason told Tim the guy he and his two friends had been living with for the past few months had a nasty history with alcohol and violence, and he doesn’t know how comfortable he feels about sending Jason back in there, even for a few minutes. Being a Wayne means Dick’s clothes and poise usually make him look older than his seventeen years, and he’s not really above using his privileges to get what he wants.

But then again, something tells him this isn’t exactly the neighborhood to flaunt his brand new car and designer jeans like they’re currency. Something also tells him if ever he decides they should go at this the civilized way, it’s probably Tim he should send to ring the doorbell. It’s odd, how brutal the reminder always is, that he might be Bruce’s son in every way that matters but that the truth is written in the lines of his face, evident like the color of his skin.

“No,” Jason says. “This is my world. You don’t know the rules. You have no fucking idea how things work. Just stay in the car, let me make sure that fucktard didn’t beat the life out of Roy, and then we can all go home.” His expression hardens on that last word, like it cost him to get it out.

Dick drags a hand down his face, tired already. He doesn’t know how to deal with Jason. It’s like the boy has a switch—he’ll be sweet and shy one minute, and the next he’s ablaze, fury and spite in everything he does. Dick understands the need to lash out. He’s been there. What he has more trouble getting is that raw hostility, how Jason seems to take Dick’s attempts to calm the storm as personal attacks. “I’m not insinuating I know any of this better than you,” he tries. “I’m just saying, I’m—I’m the adult here, I guess. You’re my responsibility, both of you,” he adds that last bit expressly for Tim who has been sticking his tongue at him for the past two minutes thinking his older brother can’t see him.

“Whatever,” Jason sighs. “You were supposed to turn again here.”

 

\- -

 

Jason can pinpoint the exact moment Dick realizes there is far more between them than just two years and the virtual wall of social class. It’s when they park on the other side of the road from the decrepit house Jason used to live in and Jason tenses, loses all the softness he allowed himself to slip into his life this past week. He knows he looks scary that way—that he looks older and rougher, like someone you would want to avoid if you crossed paths in the street.

“Wait for me here,” he grunts, and surprisingly, Dick just nods.

He circles the house so he can get to the back door. It’s seven in the evening on a Saturday, which means Tony is probably out and Roy should be on kitchen cleaning duty. The plan is to use the key they keep under a flowerpot and slip into the kitchen from the back, make sure Roy and Kori are all right, and leave the fastest possible. Only when Jason opens the door there’s no one downstairs. The house is plunged in darkness, silent.

“Roy?” he whispers. No answer. He should—he should go back to the car. Tell Dick. Maybe they should contact CPS. Maybe they should call _the police._ But there’s still the slight possibility that this is just the usual shit, and implicating the authorities would mean Roy and Kori getting placed elsewhere, separated. He can’t risk it. He’s not going to do that to them. “Roy?” he tries again.

He almost jumps out of his own skin when two hands close around his wrists. “ _Shh_ ,” Kori hisses, still invisible but so very _there_ , real and palpable and within arms’ reach. Despite the worry still nagging at his side, Jason smiles widely as she brings him to her, wrapping him into a crushing hug. “He’s upstairs,” she murmurs into his ear, and there’s no question of whom she’s referring to. “Passed out. He came back from work already drunk, he tried to—well.” He can feel her ragged breathing against his throat, burning. His hand finds the small of her back and he presses her against his chest, tries to make himself big and warm like a safe house.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she says, and he doesn’t believe her. She’s trembling in his arms. He takes a few steps back, brings them in front of the door he didn’t close. Through the screen, the moonlight is enough to illuminate her face, her bright green eyes that look too sad and guilty for her to be telling the truth. There are purple bruises on her forearms, and they’re finger-shaped. Blinding, icy anger rushes through Jason’s veins.

“I’m going to murder him,” he grits.

“Don’t,” Kori cuts him sharply. “Roy stopped him. I said I was fine.”

Jason closes his eyes and wills the rage down. “Where’s Roy? He didn’t pick up his phone when I tried calling earlier.”

“Is that why you’re here?” Kori asks. Jason turns his head ashamedly.

“I was going to come anyway, you know that, right? I promised you. I keep my word.”

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t,” she says, but there is doubt in her gaze. Her tone drops. “Roy’s upstairs too. He— _Jason_. Tony banged him up pretty bad.”

Jason hears the stairs creak and before the information actually registers, he has already pushed Kori behind him. The lights switch on and Tony walks into the kitchen, and at first he doesn’t even notice Jason standing there as he goes for the fridge.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he mutters when he turns around, an open carton of milk in his hand. “Son of a bitch,” he says again, “what the fuck are you doing in my house, you shithead?”

Jason wishes he had an answer. He wishes he could just throw a witty comeback at him, act all tough and mighty. But he cannot move his legs, and his voice is gone. Terror takes over his body like a wave, a tsunami destroying everything in its wake, turning him into a scared little kid all over again. The only thing keeping him standing is Kori’s shaking figure behind him. If he falls, she falls. “Listen,” he forces out, and his voice sounds wrong and raspy. He raises his palms in sign of peace. “I just wanted to say hi. I just wanted to see them.”

“Get the _hell_ out of my house!” Tony yells. “Get the fuck out, you crazy motherfucker, or I’m calling the cops!” He takes a step towards them and Jason instinctively recoils, only Kori is right behind him and he bumps into her. “You,” Tony hisses, his attention turning to her, “go back upstairs.”

 _That_ makes Jason see red. “You don’t get to fucking order her around. Fuck off.”

Tony’s eyes go wide, and he drops the milk. It spills on the floor in a big _splash_ , rivulets of white liquid running along the tiles. He’s still wasted, his movements erratic. Just as Jason thinks _I could take him_ , Tony grabs a big knife from the countertop.

“Shit,” Kori breathes out, and she pushes Jason out of the way, puts herself between them like a shield. Jason watches her angle her chin up proudly, using her body the only way she knows, as a peace offering, as a bargaining chip. Geometric patterns unfold in his mind—if Tony brings his arm down, he will cut through her chest. For a second that feels eternal, there is no sound at all in the room, and everything looks oddly still. They’re holding their breaths, all waiting for one of them to crack and make the first move.

“Kori,” Jason says, low, breaking the spell. He knows Tony can hear the urgency in his tone. It’s a mistake. “Please just let her go,” he pleads anyway, because he has everything to lose. Because Tony might not be the worst bully Jason has ever faced, but the memories alone are enough to reduce him to a shivering mess, and he can feel the panic rising in his throat, like spun glass piling up in his gullet. _Not now,_ he begs. _Please, not now_.

“The girl stays here,” Tony spits. He waves the knife around, and its tip grazes Kori’s cheek.

It’s not a very hard decision to make. He knows the man. He’s a coward and a drunk, dangerous only as far as he’s unpredictable and violent. If Jason pushes the right buttons, he can direct that violence towards him, give enough time to Kori to flee the room and get Roy. Maybe if Dick and Tim see them running out of the house they’ll realize something went wrong. Maybe no one has to get hurt. “Why,” Jason says, hoping his voice sounds mocking and not _fucking terrified_. “Because you’re too chicken to come at me? Scared you’ll get your ass handed to you just like last time?”

“I’m not going to let you,” Tony splutters, furious, “I’m not going to let a fucking wetback talk to me like this!”

The insult stings, but it doesn’t matter, because Kori is still dangerously close to the blade. Jason is trying to pull her back to him slowly, without Tony noticing, when he hears the screen door slam shut behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Dick’s voice says in his back, ice cold. “What did you just call him?” When the _fuck_ did Dick get here?

Tony just stares at him, dumbfounded. “Who the _fuck_ are _you_.”

Dick roars and throws himself at him, grabs him by the lapel and punches him square in the jaw. They hit the wall and Tony bends forward, grunting in pain, and he loses his grip on the knife. It clatters to the floor and Jason all but jumps on it, pushing Kori to the side. He kicks it away, watches it disappear into the space under the washing machine.

“Go upstairs,” he tells Kori. “Wake Roy up, _don’t come back down_.”

“Jay—”

“Go upstairs, Kori!”

Something in his voice must have convinced her, because she just nods and runs to the stairs. Or maybe it’s how ferocious the fight looks now, almost surreal.

Dick knows how to fight. Jason knew he was _strong_ , the guy’s an athlete, but this is more than just having the muscle. There is a chilling efficiency to Dick’s blows, there is technique, there is a cold-blooded, rational _will to hurt_. Only Tony is taller and larger than him, and Tony knows how to fight too. The first punch took him by surprise, but now he’s giving as good as he’s getting, and cool dread pools into Jason’s stomach. In the swirl of motion, he has the time to see blood on Dick’s mouth. It’s probably no more than a busted lip, but it shouldn’t _be there_. This is not a place Richard Wayne should have _ever_ found himself in, and it’s all Jason’s fault. He tries to get between them, but Tony knees him in the gut, sends Jason tumbling against a stool. He hits his head on it and his left ear starts ringing, and for a second the kitchen blurs before his eyes.

“You little faggot!” Tony yells. The rest of his sentence dies on his lips when Dick’s fist lands on his nose with a sickening _crack_. Still lightheaded, Jason attempts to get back up, stumbling. He watches, horrified, as Tony kicks Dick in the crotch and Dick doubles over, crying out in pain. He has to do something. He has to help. He has—

“Get your hands off my _son_.”

At first, he thinks he’s dreaming, but no. He really is hearing Bruce Wayne’s voice, a low rumble, like thunder.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, i want to thank you all so much for your kudos, comments, and subscriptions. you made writing this story an incredibly fulfilling experience, and every ao3 email i received made me smile and squeal in glee. y'all are the real mvps
> 
> this work is now marked as complete, but it's obviously not the end of _the story_. for those of you interested in clark and bruce's Epic Young Love, the prequels are now all filed under [their own ongoing series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/394543).  
>  jason's new life with the waynes deserves its own multi-chaptered work, which i am currently writing and will start posting soon. you might want to subscribe to [it's not where you come from (it's where you belong)](http://archiveofourown.org/series/369542) if you're interested in that! 
> 
> i hope you enjoy this chapter!! see you on the other side ;)

“I hope you realize how goddamn _stupid_ what you did tonight was.”

Dick looks away, lets his father’s voice wash over him like a wave. His head hurts like a bitch even though an EMT gave him an analgesic shot earlier, and the bones in his left hand are throbbing with pain. All he wants is to crawl into bed and sleep for 24 hours straight.

“Bruce, lower your voice,” Clark orders sharply. “And you, young man,” he points an accusing finger at Dick, “Don’t you think this means I’m on your side.”

“Could have fooled me,” Bruce mutters. Clark rolls his eyes.

“Listen,” Dick starts, “I’m sorry, okay?” He’s sitting at the edge of his mattress, Bruce and Clark towering over him, and suddenly it’s like he’s eleven all over again, trying to sneak out of the house at night and getting caught every time. Reading disappointment in the tight angry line of Bruce’s mouth still stings just the same. “I’m sorry I left without telling you, I’m sorry I put Tim in danger, and I’m sorry I didn’t call you before going into that house. But I’m not sorry I hit him. I’m not sorry I defended Jason.”

“No one asked you to apologize for that,” Clark says softly after a long silence. “Dick… you scared the bejesus out of us. When Tim called—”

“I know,” Dick says hurriedly. “I know, and that’s never happening again, okay? I promise.”

Bruce gives him a stern look. “You’re damn right it won’t, because you’re grounded for life. I took the liberty of relieving you of your car keys. Alfred will be driving you all to and from school for the next week at least, and practice excepted, you are to return home _straight_ after your classes.”

“Oh come on,” Dick groans, “I can’t even go to Wally’s birthday party?”

“I’m sure he’ll survive your absence this one time,” Bruce deadpans, unmoved.

Clark shoots him a sideway glance. “Maybe we can discuss that later, guys? Dick,” he sighs, “We just wanted you to know we’re glad no one got seriously hurt, but that we never, _ever_ want you to put yourself in that kind of situation again, is this clear?”

“Yeah, crystal clear.”

“Good,” Clark smiles. “We’ll let you sleep it off, then. Bruce?”

Bruce nods curtly and Clark leaves the room after pressing a hand to Dick’s shoulder in a comforting motion.

“Dad,” Dick starts, but Bruce cuts him off, sitting next to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, low, his voice slightly hoarse. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

“It’s okay,” Dick offers, bringing his knees up to his chest so he can curl up against Bruce’s side. “I messed up.”

“You’re a kid. You made the wrong decision. I—I forget,” Bruce sighs, “How young you are. You’re too smart.”

“Timmy’s the smart one,” Dick laughs weakly.

“No,” his father shakes his head. “I mean, of course. Your brother is brilliant. That’s not the kind of smart I’m talking about, Dick.”

It wakes up a forgotten pain inside him, a dull ache nested right under his heart, trapped inside his ribcage. He forces himself to inhale slowly, closes his eyes and appreciates the reassuring warmth of Bruce’s arm against his cheek.

“I think I was angry,” he says eventually when a minute has passed. “I mean, before going in there. I think I was already angry. I would have called, probably, if I wasn’t already—I don’t know. Feeling like crap.”

“You want to talk about it?” Bruce asks, and he sounds pained about it, which makes Dick chuckle.

“I don’t know. I don’t really know where it came from. Jason… Jason brought back a bunch of memories, I guess.”

Bruce pushes him gently so he can look into his eyes when he says, “Anytime, Dick. Anytime you need to talk about anything, you _know_ you can come to me, right?”

“Yeah,” Dick nods, and there’s an unpleasant lump in his throat. He shakes his head, wills the tears away. “Don’t worry about me. You should get some sleep, don’t you have that committee meeting thing tomorrow?”

“I already cancelled,” Bruce says, but he does get up from the bed. “We’ll have CPS over in the morning, see what they can do for these poor kids.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course.”

“Do you need anything? You have water, your meds?”

This time, Dick’s laugh is real and full. “Yeah, you mother hen. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Bruce smiles, leaning against the doorframe. “I love you, son.”

And just like that, it’s easy to breathe again.

It shouldn’t be. He’s seventeen. It’s been years. He knows, rationally, that this is his house, his family, _his life_. But some phobias never really go away, and Dick’s greatest fear has always been not being good enough. There’s always a voice at the back of his head whispering viciously that if he fails, he will lose all this. He’s working on it. Bruce knows, he suspects. They do not discuss their feelings openly often, but when they do, it’s always something Dick _vitally_ needs to hear at that exact moment.

Carefully taking off his clothes so he doesn’t mess up his hand again, he gets ready for bed. If he focuses, he can catch the whispers coming from Jason’s room.

 _Jason_. Dick knew, on some level, that it had to be bad. But he hadn’t imagined quite _how_ bad, exactly. His mind drifts to the two teenagers they brought back home with them for the night, the beautiful girl with skin the color of honey and bright green eyes, and the redhead who looks like trouble personified, who cannot be more than sixteen but has track marks all over his forearms and holds himself like he is a thousand years old. And Jason—young, scarred, rageful Jason, who wouldn’t let go of the girl to even get his head injury looked at, who had himself between a knife and her body when Dick had entered the house. Jason deserves so much more. It makes Dick so angry, so goddamn _furious_. And he can’t do anything about it. He _tried_ , and he made things worse. He will never forget the way Jason looked at him when he heard the police sirens, the utter _betrayal_ and resentment in his blue irises.

It doesn’t really matter, does it? Child Protective Services will be at the manor tomorrow, and Jason will probably leave with his friends. Dick hopes the boys can at least stay together. He spent six months in a group home, hated every minute of it.

The digital clock on his nightstand says 12:17 AM. The hushed sounds from Jason’s room have died down. Dick climbs under the covers and closes his eyes, prays he won’t dream of falling.

It’s an empty prayer. His nightmares are always about sliced wire and shattered bones.

 

\--

 

It’s two in the morning and Jason is staring blindly at the ceiling. The room is plunged in darkness, silent. Kori’s head is pillowed on his chest, a lock of hair tickling Jason’s chin with every breath she takes in her sleep. On his left, Roy is sleeping soundly too, his hand thrown over Jason’s stomach so he can intertwine Kori’s fingers with his. The bastard got him good—his lip is busted, there’s blood drying under his nose even if they cleaned him up twice, and most of the right side of his face is purple and yellow. When Jason first saw him after the EMTs dragged him out of the house, he almost broke free to run inside again and fucking _obliterate_ Tony.

Not that there was much left to obliterate. Apparently, Bruce Wayne doesn’t take well to people touching Richard Wayne. Jason doesn’t remember everything because he was pretty much out of it for most of what happened after Bruce got there, but he does recall distinctly hearing bones _break_. And later, when he was sitting in the ambulance with that annoying nurse who was checking him for a concussion, he saw Bruce wipe blood off his knuckles with his embroidered handkerchief. Quite the image. A better one had been Bruce’s _sneer_ when the police had asked him about Tony’s sorry state, how he had just given them his lawyer’s card and had shrugged _“Self defense”_ before turning on his heels to go and sit with Dick. Dick, blood all over his beautiful face, sitting on the pavement with an orange emergency blanket wrapped around his shoulder.

It’s hard to sleep. Hard to stop the gears turning frantically in his mind, working the worst possible scenarios about him never seeing Roy and Kori ever again. He thought it would be easier, having them close, which is why he told Alfred there wasn’t any need to set up two other rooms. But it’s worse, actually. They’re all he has left. He can’t lose them. They’re his family.

“Jaybird,” Roy mumbles, stirring in his sleep. He moves around until he has his legs draped around Jason’s, his face buried in the crook of Jason’s neck.

No one will know, so it’s okay when he drops a kiss to Roy’s forehead, and it’s okay when he lowers his head so he can kiss his cheekbone, too. No one would know if he angled Roy’s head back and kissed his lips either, but _that_ feels too much like a violation, so Jason swallows back what he wants and just breathes in slowly. He starts counting sheep and waits for the familiar and welcome feeling of going under.

 

\--

 

In her defense, Harley _does_ look just as devastated as she says she is when she informs Jason of the court’s decision a day later.

“Listen, kiddo,” she shakes her head sadly, “I really tried.”

“Roy hasn’t touched drugs in _six months_ ,” Jason protests. “He doesn’t need rehab, he needs _us_.”

“I know,” she says. “I’m so sorry.”

It feels surreal, having this conversation in Bruce’s living room, on his cozy sofa, over tea and fucking _croissants_. He forces himself to take a bite of his even if his stomach is just one giant knot. He washes it down with the coffee Alfred made especially for him and almost burns his tongue in his hurry.

“What about me?” he asks.

“Gotham’s Boys United,” Harley grimaces. “Sorry. I mean, it’s not that bad. But I know you didn’t want to go back to a group home.”

 _I didn’t want to go back to anywhere at all,_ he thinks. “Whatever, it’s better than juvie,” he tells her instead.

She shuffles through her files, smiles triumphantly when she seems to have found what she was looking for. “I like your attitude, young man. Would you give these to Bruce?” she asks, pushing a thin pink folder towards him. “And call Kori for me?”

“What’s going to happen to her?” Jason inquires before he can bite it back.

“I found her a family I can personally vouch for. Don’t worry, Jason.” There’s a strange glow to her eyes when she says that, like she knows more than she’s letting on.

 _Why can’t I go there too?_ It’s a petty question to ask, and he’s immediately ashamed of himself. But it stays there, nagging at him, while he walks up the stairs to tell Kori it’s her turn. It quickly becomes _Why can’t I stay here?_ , and that’s even stupider of him.

“She told you,” Roy says when Kori has left the room. It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” Jason says, sitting on the floor. “I don’t—I don’t understand.”

“They found Tony’s stash of coke under the sink. He told them it was mine, and you know he hid stuff in our room too, so. They believed him.”

Jason can’t believe his ears. “That’s fucking ridiculous, you’ve never even done coke.”

“I know,” Roy shrugs. “But I _am_ a junkie, Jay.”

“No,” Jason says, surprising himself at how hard his voice sounds. “You’re not. Shit—shit happened to you. And you stopped, you—that’s not something you _are_.”

“Jay,” Roy says very softly, sliding down from the bed so he can kneel on the floor next to him. “You don’t have to justify my fuck-ups for me.”

All Jason wants is to let go, bring Roy to him and hold him tight and start _sobbing_ like he’s needed to do in _days_ ; but someone once drilled into him the hard way that crying is for pussies, so he doesn’t. Instead, he bites his bottom lip angrily and ignores the sting at the corner of his eyes, and shakes his head. “You want to go there?”

“I want to go somewhere where it doesn’t hurt all the time.”

And Jason has something to answer to that, something important, but there’s a knock on the door and then Tim is there, looking sorry and also really fucking sad.

“Jason, you need to get your things.”

“What, now?”

Tim looks down, his fingers playing anxiously with the hem of his red sweater. “Yeah,” he says. “Mrs. Quinn is driving you—well. She’s driving you there.”

“ _Fuck_.” He squeezes his eyelids shut, takes a deep breath. He thought—he thought he had more time, damnit. Grabbing the bag Roy hands him, he shoves his meager belongings inside with more forcefulness than is probably necessary.

“Jaybird,” Roy says, tugging at his sleeve. “Look at me.”

Jason stops, lets what he’s holding fall on the bed. “What?”

“Come on, give me a hug.” He pulls Jason in, screws his arms tightly around him. “What we have, the three of us,” he says against Jason ear, voice low, “No one can take it away. You’re my brother.”

“When you get out…”

“I’ll find you. You have my word.”

He grabs his things and follows Tim into the corridor. The younger boy keeps shooting him sideway glances, obviously wanting to say something but not having the courage to.

“I’ll miss you,” Jason says, to put him out of his misery, and also because it’s true. “You made things easier. Nicer. Thank you for that.”

“I—” Tim stammers. “Me too. I’ll miss you too.”

Just as they’re getting to the stairs, he hears rushed footsteps, and then Dick is grabbing him by the forearm. “Jason!” For a long second they just stare at each other wordlessly, Dick’s fingers burning on the skin of his wrist. And then Dick is crushing him into a hug, his nose in Jason’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and then he’s slipping a piece of paper in Jason’s hand. “Call me. If you need anything, and even if you don’t. Just—just call me.”

 

\--

 

Harley’s Nissan disappears down the driveway and Bruce allows himself to feel dejected. Clark wraps his arms around him from behind, chin digging into Bruce’s shoulder, and drops a feather-like kiss to his jaw.

“You gonna be okay?”

Bruce tenses. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Come on,” Clark sighs, and now he’s rubbing soothing circles with his thumb on Bruce’s palm, “I’ve known you for almost fifteen years, babe. I know when you’re upset.”

“I don’t have a reason to be upset. I knew he was here for ten days.”

“You wanted to help.”

He snickers bitterly. “Of course I wanted—of course I wanted to _help_ , Clark, did you see where he used to live?”

“I didn’t say you were wrong, love.”

Detaching himself from his partner so he can turn around and face him, Bruce shakes his head. “He’s a good kid. He’s a good kid with a shitty life, and the longer he’s kept in the system, thrown from one house to another like he’s some—some package nobody wants, the longer he’s exposed to violence and drugs and misery, the higher the risk of him doing something stupid is.”

Clark runs his fingers through his hair, looking like he’s unsure what to say. “That’s. That’s the case for a lot of kids, Bruce,” he settles for cautiously.

Bruce glares at him darkly. “You think I don’t know that? What, we can’t save everyone so we just—give up? Should I throw our sons in the street, too, following this logic?”

“That’s not what I was implying and you know it. Don’t take it out on me.” He takes a step forward and reaches for Bruce’s arms, circles both his wrists with his hands and looks him in the eye. “Bruce. Love. You know I will support whichever decision you make as long as it doesn’t hurt you or this family. You want to foster this kid? Okay. But we need to have a long discussion about it, where we realistically evaluate our options, and then we need to talk to the kids about it too. It can’t be rushed. It can’t be just your protective instincts talking. That wouldn’t be fair to us, and that certainly wouldn’t be fair to him.”

“You really think I’m that big of an idiot, huh?” is all Bruce has to answer. He shakes Clark’s grip off, takes a seat on the couch. Clark just looks at him questioningly. “I know it’s not an overnight decision, Jesus. In case you forgot, two of my sons were adopted, and you weren’t there for the first one.”

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s a low blow, Bruce.”

“Well, don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking child, and I’ll return you the courtesy.” When Clark just stares at him wordlessly, he sighs, putting his face in his hands. “Ah, fuck. I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” his partner replies, not unkindly. “Have you—?”

“Have you _ever_ known me to not take my meds, Clark?” Raising a dubious eyebrow, Clark snorts. “Okay,” Bruce amends, “But I haven’t pulled any of that crap since Damian was born. I’m not about to start now.”

“Have you seen Dinah, lately?”

“Not for professional reasons. I’ll call her, I promise.”

“You should probably—” Clark starts, but he’s interrupted when the living room’s sliding doors open wide and Dick literally _jumps_ in and hops to them so he can sit next to Bruce.

“Parents of mine!” he exclaims happily. “How are you on this magnificent afternoon?”

Bruce rolls his eyes. “You want your car, do you?”

Dick has the decency of looking offended. “What, I can’t show a little love for no reason?”

“Have you taken your meds?” Clark asks with a long-suffering sigh. Bruce almost chuckles, but he figures it would be tasteless.

“What? Oh, no, but my hand doesn’t hurt anymore. I mean, not that much.”

“I meant your Adderall,” Clark clarifies.

Dick’s eyes go wide. “ _Oh_. Oh, shit. Yeah, no.”

“Language,” Bruce warns him, but at this point it’s more a reflex than anything else. “Do _not_ make up for your missing dose, you know what it does to you.”

“Yes _mom_ ,” Dick groans, and just like that he’s off again, like a cannonball.

“Well, that one _is_ your son for sure,” Clark teases.

Bruce can’t help the fond smile that stretches his lips at that. “We did good, didn’t we? Look at him.”

Everything Dick touches turns to gold. There is so much generosity in him, and a child-like innocence Bruce hopes he will never lose. He wishes he could shelter Dick from all the horrors in the world, but one look at the bandage around his son’s left hand is enough to remind him he can’t.

“We did,” Clark agrees. “ _You_ did, Bruce.”

“Cut the bullshit, you raised him just as much as I did.”

“Yeah,” Clark nods, “But you saved him. _That_ you did all on your own. And if you’re sure about Jason, then I’ll stand by you. You know that.”

 

\--

 

Boys United is the biggest group home in Gotham. It houses 12 boys age thirteen to seventeen, all of them juvenile delinquents, most of them first time offenders, fresh out of juvie.

Harley drops Jason off at the door, where the house manager, a woman in her late forties named Sarah, is waiting for him. They immediately go upstairs so she can show him to his room, which he will apparently be sharing with a boy named Jaime.

“They’re all in school right now,” she explains. “You go to the charter school down Elmont Street, the bus comes by every morning at seven sharp.”

“I, err,” Jason starts, “I’m not really up to date, school-wise.”

Sarah stops and looks at him warmly. “I know. I read your file, you know? Don’t worry, I’ll talk to the principal. I’m afraid you’re going to have to repeat a year, though.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Jason mutters gloomily. It’s unfair, because he loves school, and he knows he’s smart, and if they just could give him a chance…

They reach the end of the hallway and Sarah pushes a door open. “Here you go. Left side is Jaime’s, don’t touch his stuff and you’ll get along great.”

“What—what is he like?” Jason asks, even if that’s showing weakness. He figures Sarah isn’t the biggest threat he’s going to have to face, and if there’s something he needs to know about his roommate, he prefers taking that risk.

“He’s a good kid,” Sarah shrugs. “No, really,” she adds when Jason rolls his eyes. “You could do worse.”

 

Jaime and the others get back from school an hour later, and Jason realizes very quickly that Sarah was right. One look at the bunch confirms that while he doesn’t know Jaime yet, Jason _definitely_ could have done worse. They’re loud and entitled, all rough edges and callous smiles, shoving and pushing each other up the stairs like a pack of animals. Jaime—and Jason knows it’s Jaime because there’s a picture of him with his family in their room—is awkwardly walking behind them, putting as much distance as he can between him and the group.

“ _Boys_!” Sarah’s voice rings sharply, “Behave.”

They don’t exactly _shut up_ but they are calmer now, scattering around to all go to their rooms. Leaning back against the wall in what he hopes is a nonchalant pose, Jason watches the doors slam and then directs his gaze to Jaime who is dragging his feet with a wary expression on his face.

“Hey, roommate,” Jason drawls.

“Sarah didn’t say anything about a new boy,” Jaime says guardedly.

As if on cue, Sarah appears behind him. “Sorry kiddo, didn’t have the time to tell you this morning. This is Jason.”

Jason waves awkwardly just so he’s not just standing there like an idiot. His initial bravado is wavering.

“Jaime Reyes,” Jaime introduces himself, extending his hand.

“Todd,” Jason supplies, shaking it. “It’s, err, Jason Todd.”

“Can I leave you guys alone?” Sarah asks.

“Sure,” Jaime shrugs. “I’ll tell him about the rules, don’t worry.”

“You’re a godsend,” she smiles.

“I try my best. Okay, come in,” he says to Jason, tugging at his sleeve. He’s _that_ kind of kid, then. The real deal, _actually_ good. “Everything on that side of the room is yours,” Jaime explains, pointing at the right. “We go to school from eight thirty to four, the bus comes here at seven and picks us up at four thirty from school. There’s a chart for the chores downstairs in the kitchen, we’ll incorporate you later, I guess. Obviously, no drugs, no alcohol, no cigarettes, no girls, and no sneaking out. Everything good?”

“Yeah,” Jason nods, emptying the contents of his bag on his new bed. The piece of paper with Dick’s number falls from where he tucked it in between two shirts, and he grabs it hastily, shoves it inside his jeans’ pocket. He won’t call, he already knows; but for some reason he’s keeping it, like a talisman. “Hey,” he turns around, trying to sound casual, “How are the others?”

Jaime is sitting at his small desk now, unpacking his school bag. He studies Jason carefully for a while, not responding. “They’re okay, I guess,” he says finally.

“Listen,” Jason sighs, “I’m not an idiot, I saw you earlier. You’re…” He doesn’t want to say _scared_ , doesn’t want to offend his only potential ally in here. A little voice tells him maybe he’s going at it wrong. Maybe he should be cozying up to the other boys, like he should have done his first time in juvie. But Jason has never been one for bullies, and he’s not about to start now. “Uncomfortable,” he chooses to say. “You’re uncomfortable around them.”

Jaime freezes with his Geography textbook in hand. “It’s just… ah, crap. Look at me.” Jason does. He’s a scrawny kid, dark eyes and thick black hair, can’t be more than Jason’s own age, probably even younger. Some of the boys Jason saw earlier in the hallway have at least a good two years on him, and they’re double his weight. He understands.

“It wasn’t a criticism,” he says slowly. “I just want to know what I’m in for.”

Jaime looks at him like he’s lost it. “Listen, hombre. The way I see it, you fit the profile. They’ll take you in, they’re always looking for new muscle.”

“I’m not that strong,” Jason laughs. “Hey, Reyes, dude. _Jaime_. I’m not going to beat you up, Jesus, relax.” He scratches the back of his neck tiredly. “What do you mean, new muscle?”

“They’re running a racket thing, I don’t know. I don’t stay with them at school.”

“O-okay. Have you—have you told Sarah?”

Jaime just snickers bitterly. “Do you want me to _die_ , dude?”

For a while they don’t say anything else, just staring at each other, evaluating the situation. At some point, Jaime probably decides Jason isn’t a threat, so he goes back to his homework. Jason lets himself fall back on the bed, bouncing twice on the mattress and sending most of his stuff on the floor in the same movement. He wonders what the Waynes are doing. Did Bruce go to work now that Jason’s gone and Roy and Kori’s fates are settled? Or maybe he took the whole day off. Dick and Tim didn’t go to school, and Clark just got back, so maybe they’re just having a nice day at home all together. Are they the type of family to sit down on that giant couch they have in the living room and watch shitty movies together? Does Alfred make popcorn and tell them to keep it down when they’re yelling too loudly at the screen? Maybe they’re into sports, maybe they’re watching the game. Jason doesn’t even know who’s playing anymore, hasn’t had the occasion to sit down and watch baseball in years.

It’s not a surprise, when the tears come flooding in, but it _is_ a disappointment. He gets up hastily, ignores Jaime’s curious look and runs to the bathroom hoping no one is in there taking a shit. Maybe there is a God, because it’s empty, and he locks himself in and falls to his knees and just _cries_ , his shoulders shaking, his whole body hurting with a strange sense of loss.

 

\--

 

Selina watches Bruce intently as they eat wordlessly, her cat-like eyes drilling into him like a myriad of needles.

“Are you ever going to tell me what’s wrong?” she says eventually, licking her fork clean. The scallops here are delicious, Bruce knows, but she _is_ putting on a show. Not for him, that ship has sailed a long time ago. Probably not for anyone in particular. Selina doesn’t need an audience to be a star. It’s like the world arranges itself around her so she can be under an eternal spotlight. Paradoxically, she’s the most discreet woman Bruce has ever met.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he counters, looking away. “How do you like the wine? I’ve always loved Gewürztraminer. The Alsatians sure know what they’re doing.”

“The wine is perfect, of course,” she grins knowingly. “You haven’t invited me to eat at Maxim’s since we were dating, Bruce. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Clark and I are thinking of having another kid,” Bruce says really quickly, and then winces at the formulation.

“That’s wonderful,” Selina deadpans. “I am _not_ carrying it.”

“Oh, no. No. It would be… it’s a foster kid. His name is Jason.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So you’re already fostering him? You want to adopt him, is that your big dilemma?”

“No,” Bruce sighs, “He’s in a group home right now. We had him under our care for a little over ten days.”

“Well,” Selina smiles, hailing a waiter over to ask for the dessert menu, “You always did show a nasty habit of getting attached overly fast, darling. I mean, look at us.”

“I’m not—I’m not _attached_ ,” Bruce protests. “I mean, of course I am, but that’s not the point. He was being abused, Selina.”

“You and your savior complex,” she huffs.

He lowers his head, swallows back his defensive answer. _This_ is why he invited Selina. Because she knows him better than anyone, or at least as well as Clark does. And unlike Clark, she is not afraid to tell him what she thinks even if it means throwing knifes at him, the blows leaving him breathless.

“It’s not… it’s not _only_ that,” he amends.

“You see yourself in him,” she completes. It’s not a question.

“Yes. I see you, too.”

“That’s still not a good enough reason, Bruce.”

From the corner of his eye he can see the _maître d'_ waiting for them to stop talking so he can take dessert orders, so he doesn’t reply and signals him instead. Selina chooses the chocolate mousse and insists Bruce has something too, so he halfheartedly asks for the crème brûlée.

“I know,” he says once the man is gone. “I know, but I’m going to do it anyway, because it’s the right thing to do.”

“So why am I here, Bruce, if you already have it all figured out?”

“I don’t know,” he hears himself say. “Maybe I really just wanted to have dinner with an old friend.”

 

\--

 

Routine comes easily to Jason. Having a routine means having a direction; it means knowing what will happen before it actually does and it mean no surprises. It has saved his life before, and it’s probably saving his life now, so it might not be the most exciting thing in the world but Jason _likes_ his routine, okay?

He goes to East End High every day, rides the bus with Jaime, does his homework dutifully but never speaks up, eats lunch with Jaime and actively avoids everyone else, and sleeps every night at exactly 10 PM. He still has nightmares; and they’re ugly and violent and they wake him up screaming, but what can one do. Roy isn’t here to slip into bed with him and make them breath in unison, so Jason just learns to live with the fear. It’s a shitty downgrade, but Roy and Kori were an anomaly, and it’s his fault he got used to having them around.

Jaime isn’t bad. Jason doesn’t think they’re ever going to be friends, but it’s nice having him around. They speak in hushed Spanish when they don’t want Sarah to understand them, and Jason plays up his thuggish reputation with the other assholes so they leave Jaime alone, and it’s a good equilibrium. It’s a crap life, but it’s not a painful one, and no one goes hungry, and no one is beating the fuck out of him every night, so Jason counts his blessings.

He’s working on a science project with Jaime when Sarah knocks on their door one evening, unexpected. Dinner isn’t served for another hour and a half, and she said she was going to make some calls, so they’ve spread out cardboard and markers all over their floor and Jaime is drawing an intricate web of symbols that is somehow supposed to be representing plant reproduction.

“Boys?” Her voice is muffled by the wall separating them.

“What’s up?” Jason opens the door, and then he freezes.

Next to Sarah, looking weirdly out of place in his designer suit, is Bruce Wayne.

“Hello, Jason,” he says.

Jaime, who got up as well now, comes to stand on Jason’s right. “What’s going on?”

Jason still cannot find his voice. He shoots a helpless look at Sarah, who’s just staring at him silently, her eyes conveying that she has no idea what exactly is going on. Or at least that’s how Jason is choosing to interpret it. “Mister Wayne has—a proposition for you, Jay.”

Everything around Jason fades suddenly, his vision zeroing on Bruce. His heart is beating so fast in his chest he thinks it might be trying to get out. “Yes,” he says, not even waiting for her to finish. “Yes.”

Bruce’s smile is small and private but warm, like a hidden star. “Pack your bags, Jason. We’re going home.”


End file.
